


RED BEAST - Book one : Chalais

by FreyaLor



Series: RED BEAST [1]
Category: French History RPF
Genre: 17th century French politics, Abuse, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bipolar Disorder, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, Journey, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Recovery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Trauma, Violence, historical fiction - Freeform, learning, self improvement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 12:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: Ten years of Richelieu and Louis XIII's  life, between 1624 and 1634, from Richelieu's first Royal Council to the Thirty Years War.Ten years of pure French History, with an added twist : Armand and Louis do more, much more than just work together for France.Don't be fooled by the historical details, the violence, the angst : this is gay romance, and nothing else. This is the ten-years journey of a lonely King  learning to become a better man for the  love of a visionary priest.BOOK ONE : The Chalais Assassination Plot (1624-1627)





	1. April 29th 1624, Council Room, The Louvre, Paris.

Everything in him appals me.

His outrageous flexibility, his reckless arrogance.

Cunning snake, tainted priest.

_The Red Beast of my palace._

I hear his name everywhere, in every praise, in every blame. I sense his shadow in every salon, every boudoir, and even when my courtiers speak, their loud voices are nothing more than the echoes of his whispers.

Barely clear, never simple, he is no one’s enemy, no one’s friend.

He doesn’t walk, he slides.

He doesn’t speak, he hisses.

Cunning snake, _tainted priest_.

There isn’t a single corridor of the Louvre where he hasn’t caused a quarrel, and yet, as he walks into the Council Room, gently hiding behind my mother’s fracas, silence falls as twilight does. Even the oldest and bravest of my ministers, La Rochefoucault, bites his lips and averts his eyes.

They all freeze, they all stare.

The Red Beast has entered the Council.

Mother, wearing a brand-new dress so heavy with gems and silver thread it hurts the eyes more than morality itself, is laughing in the way she laughs only when she wants to be watched. Of course, she wants to be watched all the time. Only, not by me.

Not by me.

She barely nods towards my chair, skimming a bow, her glimmering eyes and rolling shoulders meant only for _him_.

Her shadow in red.

He follows, suave and distant, but his bow is flawless and, though he made sure it didn't last too long, I think I saw a gleam of joy in his dark eyes as his gaze crossed mine. He sits next to her, his head low, his hands quiet.

He doesn’t speak.

I didn't want to name him for Council. I wanted anyone, _anyone but him_.

But we live in the darkest of times, and men I can trust are a struggle to find. Condé hates my bloodline with every heartbeat, and Sillery is already so old. No name seems to last long enough to earn my attention. The moment a worthy man emerges in my sight, Gazettes and Pamphlets rise from the Earth to uncover his dirty deeds, his gruesome secrets, sneer at his words and mock his face. I am the King of France, and still, I have no idea which of those papers are written by a self-thinking man, or by that devil in red in front of me.

He did everything in his power, a hard, exhausting effort, I am sure, to ensure he ended up as my only option. And when I named him, swallowing my pride and ten years of hatred, the _bastard_ had the nerve to look burdened, and bow with the slightest frown, whispering in a strained voice that he would “if Your Majesty insists.”

I realised, at that moment, that although he's been working night and day to crush his rivals with intrigues and propaganda, though he's been crawling into my own mother's bed to whisper his will to her sated ears, the clever snake had made sure never to actually _ask for it_.

And because he was doing _me_ the favour of accepting the charge, he demanded, a trembling smile upon his face, to be relieved of most of his clerical duties to focus on his ministerial work concerning the renewing of France's past glory, as his weak health would not stand any further strain.

What could I do? I was the one to call on him.

_Filthy beast. _

He doesn’t speak.

I shake the rest of the Council out of their shock by pouring too much anger into my voice as I declare the discussion open.

As always, mother talks first, in empty yet solemn words, babbling of her anguish concerning the traitors to the Crown, or the way plots and intrigues corrupt the reputation of our Court. I huff, unsurprised and bored to the bone. Mother’s vision has barely reached outside the gates of the Louvre. She lives in a short-sighted world beginning and ending with her own boudoir. Every week, she hates another name, blames another family, invokes the righteous fury of God upon another wing of the Palace. Every week, the rest of the counsellors keep meticulously neglecting the real matters at hand, terrified to upset Juno's temper.

This table is cursed-the one I need the least is the one I hear the most.

I listen to their speeches as they lose themselves in useless circles and though I have a few nods for La Ville aux Clercs’ brave remarks on the dangers of the Hapsburgs, I find my eyes drawn to the silent snake to my right far too often.

Paying my mother’s absurdly high-pitched laughs with faint smiles, he keeps his eyes upon his hands and his hands upon his lap. Anyone would just think him shy, devoted and restrained like all men of the Church. Anyone, of course, who didn’t know the meaning of his name, and couldn’t see the radiant glint in his wide, focused eyes.

Anyone who’d never heard of the Red Beast. He doesn’t speak, but God, _how he listens_.

I watch with growing unease the slight twitching of his eyebrows as he takes in every word. Though he doesn’t once raise his gaze higher than his red gloves, I sense him observing, organising, labelling and storing everyone in that devilishly intricate mind of his.

After one hour of this, more upset than I’d ever care to tell, I lift a hand to demand silence and tear him from his hiding to draw him into broad daylight.

I swear that if I could cut him open to see what is brewing inside him, I would do it with my own sword.

“Cardinal, we have to hear from you.” I throw at him. “What would you propose to introduce some order to my concerns?”

He doesn’t look at me right away. His eyes seem to contemplate the void between the table and his hands for two more seconds as if that nightmare machine of a brain needs time to slow down. But eventually he looks up, and I almost gasp once more at the dreadful, inhuman intensity of his eyes. Dark but glistening, resolute but delicate, they’ve always been burning embers of anthracite. I pity the fool who would be deceived by his pale skin and long eyelashes. This thin, poised man is chaos in motion. He sweeps a polite stare around the table, gently nods towards Mother, towards me.

And he very quietly stands, his eyes lost somewhere beyond the high window, into the blossoming gardens.

“Many a trouble were left unattended during the office of Monsieur de Luynes.” His gentle voice rises. “Everywhere from Roussillon to the frontiers of Provence, Huguenots are gathering wealth and protectors flowing in from beyond our borders. Our borders, weak and undefended, are left open with too much effort lost to domestic schemes. These schemes, petty and sinful, are blurring the terms of our alliances, undermining the treaties our King's armies fought and died for. Order must be brought about and without further delay. Greedy middlemen diverting the wealth of royal tax income must be punished, their treasures seized. They must be replaced by trusted men in every province. Strongholds of the Grands must be brought back under the Crown's authority. Then, and only then, we will have the resources and strength to turn our attention to the restoration of the glory that is this Kingdom's rightful heritage.”

He turns to me then, with a hint of a smile, bows elegantly and sits back down.

In the minute that follows, the only thing to be heard around the cursed table is Vieuxville's ragged breath and La Rochefoucault's muffled swearing. Richelieu's face is bent low again, but he isn't trying to fool anyone anymore. An unbearable fire of resolve is burning in his eyes, and the way his lips twitch in satisfaction make me want to grab his throat.

Insufferable, complacent _filth_.

But God is he clever. Is he skilful, that animal.

He is right, down to the last word, his impeccable sentences hitting the Council walls like bullets. None dare to speak up after that, and I might as well declare the Council closed because none ever will.

I am enraged, I am disgusted.

I am furious, and I am _sick_, but I need this man.

What is God's plan, what could it be to put everything my Kingdom needs in that sly, soiled beast?

I close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out.

“Very well.” I sneer, pouring as much contempt as I can into a few words. “To work, then, Monsieur le Cardinal.”

Again, one quick, fierce stare, making my breath hitch, like a gust of wind to my face.

My hands flex against my will. I want this man out of my sight _now_.

I dismiss the Council with a snap of my fingers.

Mother, standing up in a clamour of giggling and praise, circles around Richelieu like a cat around a mouse, bathing him in a hungry stare that is an insult to my bloodline.

“Didn’t I tell you he was extraordinary?” she gloats at the retreating ministers, and I think I see Vieuxville roll his tired eyes. She sways closer to him, then, opening her wide, thick arms. She's not facing me, I cannot see her face, but I can see his and what I read there, clear as daylight, is a sudden flash of pure misery.

I frown. Did I see it right? Maybe my eyes are tired too.

No, it's there again as he accepts her embrace with gentle grace, though his smile is still the most charming sight the Palace could hold.

“My Cardinal.” she purrs. “You have been everything I expected you to be.”

He murmurs something I cannot hear, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

With that, Mother positively _clucks_, and I cringe at the undignified sound. Growling in hatred, I move to leave when I pick up her voice, breathing something about “rooms” and “favours”. I spin around with the coldest of shudders, opening my mouth to order her to save this shameless defiling for her own apartments.

But I only see his face, trapped as he is by the arms of the huge horse my dear Mother has become, and for the last time today, his anthracite eyes nail my feet to the floor.

There are so many things, so many words in the pools of night sky his pupils can be, all of them desperate, all of them urgent, all of them so loud my ears hurt.

Everything in him appals me.

_The Red Beast of my palace._

Yet, as I turn to walk away, all I can do is quietly nod to him, trying to blame my nervousness on the intolerable sight the pair of them make.


	2. September 10th 1624, Royal Apartments, The Louvre, Paris.

The way he spoke at his first Council, though remarkable, hasn't changed a thing. I still hate him with every inch of my being. The way he set himself to work, quick and efficient, didn't change my mind.

He's nothing more than a beast.

I never thought better of him.

I took some time to _observe_ him, that's all.

Whenever Mother has the kindness to let go of him, he runs to lock himself in his study at the Palais Cardinal and builds the _machine of State_ he has no doubt spent years designing, right down to the last detail.

Lists of trustworthy names, local government rules and regulations, improvements of roads and navigation, tax system, control, repression and rewards, God, he had _everything_ planned.

He’s been carrying my Kingdom twenty years in the future in his books and boxes all along as if the fact that he'd be able to make it true was only a matter of time.

Every now and then, he begs his Juno to request an audience, and upon my agreement, they both come in, because, of course, she follows her lovely creature everywhere. He steps close and bows, radiating that unbearable elegance, that infuriatingly distant poise, almost timid compared to the carnival Mother has become.

I don't know what pains me most between the sight of her, enthralled and bewitched by this tainted priest, and the sight of him, cloaking his devilish mind and subtle hands under a fake ecclesiastical stance. I don't know what angers me most between the growing feeling my mother will never give back the affection I have for her as long as he’ll be there, and her constant distraction of the first man to achieve efficient state service in ten years.

All I know is these audiences have been bloody _tedious_.

We still managed to discuss the settlement of the local governors of Languedoc and Guyenne and, in between Mother's loud giggling and pointless interruptions, I found myself forced to acknowledge his wits more than once.

Every time, his head shot up, wide eyes aflame for a split second with something so wild and intense it made me flinch. It was gone before I could understand what it was, often smothered to dull obedience by a possessive touch from Mother.

Sometimes I feel strong enough to bear a few hours of her.

Sometimes, I dismiss them both the second she starts _ogling_.

I never fail to meet those desperate stares of his, then, no doubt because I never fail to look for them.

“Your Majesty, your opinion…” a voice speaks, pulling me out of my reverie.

I let go of the embroidered curtain border I was fiddling with and give the fabric a sharp pull to cover the view of the Palais Cardinal. I turn to the Court behind me, _oh God, what were they saying? _

I frown at that nervous man holding out a map, ah, _yes_, that small hunting house near Val-de-Galie. I like that place, mostly because it’s far from here. It’s a few square miles of woods and a miller’s lodging upon the hill, nothing more, but true silence can be found there.

Out there, if you listen for a long time, you might hear the songs that God breathes into all things of nature.

I want that place.

Far enough from the endless hell of crowded corridors the Louvre has become, Val-de-Galie awaits, bathed in sunlight, blessed with peace. I’ll make it mine.

_My small house of Versailles._

“Make something useful, nothing more,” I tell Huaut, the Master Builder. “Straight lines, one main building and two wings, thirty yards each. Don’t bother with more than two floors. I’ll be using this only as a retreat, as a sanctuary. It will have no further use.”

Huaut looks surprised, but still bows.

I nod, already turning back towards the Palais Cardinal. I’ve been told that the mystic priest Joseph arrived this morning. He no doubt decided that making a detour to the Louvre to salute his King was a waste of time and went straight to Richelieu’s study. That maniacal monk barely raises his head when we’re in the same room. He lives and breathes only for the Red Snake. They’re both carved from the same stone, all brains and no heart, thriving in shadows and coded writing.

Well, I’ll go there and hear what they’re talking about. Palais-_Cardinal_ or not, we’re in Paris, this land is mine, and there will be no secrets kept from me.

I spin around, stride to the door, dismissing the whole Court except two Royal Guards, and make my way to the stairs. I distractedly watch the courtier’s faces crumble, made sour by rejection, as always happens with beggars you close a door upon.

They know where I am going. They already whisper his name. Richelieu, _Richelieu._

They hate him twice as much as I do. All of them know at least three people he has lied to, half of them want him dead, some of them actively plotting it. Since the day of the Cardinal’s first Council, rumours and bickering have raised from a low hum to a bloody racket. The corrupted cardinal, his thirst for power, his devouring ambition. Richelieu, a foot in every salon, an eye in every room. The Red Spider, an agent in each province, a spy in every household. The filthy snake, abusing the Queen Mother’s mind, crawling into her bed, _sucking_ favours out of her.

They look at me with fear and bitterness as I walk out, _what is it, idiots? _

Do you think I’m not aware of what he is?

_He’s nothing more than a beast. _

Yet, he is useful. Besides, if any of you had even a third of his wits and willpower, I’d be happy to give you Richelieu’s position. But none of you, _none of you, _ever had.

Blame yourselves for the coming of the Snake to the Louvre, lowlifes, _blame yourselves._

I refuse the carriage offered to me by the Guards. I’ll walk. It’ll cool my spirits.

The walk to the Palais Cardinal takes five minutes at most. Summer has been generous with Paris this year, letting a warm wind linger so far as the beginning of autumn. The breeze carries the heavy scent of herbs and spices from the gardens. I hear the crops are thick and plenty, and the white plague is receding in the South. The lenient spotless skies welcome me under the arcades between the Louvre and the Palais, and yet, though I walk fast and easy, it does nothing to calm me.

** **

** **

When my guards solemnly knock on his apartments’ doors, they’re opened right away by Charpentier, his Master clerk. The man bows low, his shock _awfully faked_.

No matter how I try, I’ll never surprise Richelieu in his own Palace. I'd have to use the secret passages leading straight to his chambers. I know they must exist, I cannot imagine that wicked man having this whole place built according to his plans without dozens of them, but to this day, my guards haven’t yet found them.

Charpentier leads us to the library, polite and respectful, his goodwill certainly more genuine than his astonishment.

“I will announce Your Majesty” he claims, and trots towards the other end of the huge hall.

He knocks, enters the study. I can barely count to ten before he hurries back to me, bowing low again and gesturing towards the door left ajar. A second of hesitation before I nod at my Guards to wait for me here. Always the same visceral doubt about Richelieu, every day. Every bloody day.

What makes me wave it away eventually and pass his doors alone with a quiet face, I couldn’t pinpoint in a thousand years.

I find them both, birds of a feather, leaning over a messy pile of letters on Richelieu's desk, a map of France carelessly nailed to a wall on their left, fire roaring in the hearth on their right. I open my mouth to growl about the rooms being insanely warm, but as the Cardinal looks up from his work I see him smile like never before, wide and cheerful and _innocent_, where does _that_ come from?

“Your Majesty, such a pleasure!” He says, and two things shut my mouth before I utter my first complaint.

One, as he lets go of his desk to walk towards me, I think he sways to the side twice. By the way Joseph's acute stare follows his moves in raw anguish, I guess I saw right.

Two, though his face seems alight with what looks like joy, his hands are white and his lips almost blue. He's sick. Again.

For God's sake, I placed a man who forgets to _eat_ at the head of my Council. I'd like to roll my eyes, but he gently bows, murmuring an affable question about my health. As I am too busy trying to find out what makes him so gleeful to say anything of significance, he humbly guides me towards the desk, where Joseph meets me with the slightest of nods. The grey-bearded priest lets out a blessing in Latin that is, I have heard, the best salute he can give.

“Father Joseph is bringing me excellent news, Your Majesty.” The Cardinal announces with a soft, delighted voice. “Revolt is brewing in the heart of Spain. A growing number of Portuguese lords are gathering in contestation, and ideas of independence are blossoming in their minds. A division would strike a terrible blow to Spain's prestige and war force. Consider, Sire, that it would make Spain lose the colonies of Brazil, who are and will remain Portuguese.”

With that, he unrolls a map of Europe, covered in what I recognise as his cramped handwriting. To present it to me, he literally swirls around, his heavy robes sliding around his legs, and that beaming light on his face, I’ve never seen it before, _Heavens, what has gotten into him? _

“Thanks to Father Joseph's dedicated efforts and wisely distributed incentives,” he adds, pale as a ghost but definitely ecstatic; “three Portuguese provinces are already raising armies. My informants have been quite clear that a confrontation is to be expected soon. This could smother Spain's urge to close her grip around our frontiers for a while, and allow us to...”

“Organize our own army.” I let out before I think of it.

Satisfaction and pride glint in his dark eyes for a second, and he joins his hands upon his heart before he slowly nods.

I bite the inside of my cheeks hard because I do not want to smile. Not once, not ever.

And yet, I must admit, I feel _glorious_.

Gathering, training, and equipping a real state army is something I've been longing to do for years. I am sick and tired of hiring Swiss or Flemish mercenaries. These cost a fortune and are likely to abandon me for the highest bidder. I am famished for skilled, disciplined French men to lead into battle, and face our neighbours’ defiance. The campaigns I could design, the sieges, the wars! I'd be King by deed and not only by word, at last.

But how could I do that while my poor France is a mess? The treasury is empty, commerce is a dying lamb, and here, in my own Council, Mother is taking up too much time, too much space. Shifting her stubborn concern from the lowest intrigues of the Louvre to a horizon as wide as our continent is an impossible task. She never wants anyone talk of threat from Spain, blinded, devout fool she is, she never tolerated the slightest -

_Oh. _ _I know what has gotten into him._

I know why he smiles so bright, despite his obvious exhaustion, his restrained agony. I know why he slides around me so joyfully, eager to speak, almost out of breath, excited, feverish.

This is the first time I've spoken to him without Mother around.

I have a quick glance for Joseph. He smiles furtively, _a terrifying sight_, and nods, watching the Cardinal with sheer pride and barely muted devotion. That troubled monk always seems to understand everything.

I turn back to Richelieu, then, and after a brief resigned sigh, gesture towards the map and ask,

“It is our personal wish, as it was our father's, to see France restored as the first-hand power in Europe. How do you suggest we proceed?” 

I have never seen a man _light up so bright_.

***

He spoke for two hours straight, unfolding letters, opening books, drawing quick figures on white sheets to help me understand his most intricate thoughts, and as he spun and moved and danced I found myself torn between passion and mild terror.

Passion, because God, that red devil had gathered my wildest dreams from the last ten years and laid them all down on paper. Everything was there, from recruiting to fundraising, along with the latest weaponry, from siege machines to the buckling of infantry boots. For two hours, we built together what I used to call a dream and now looks like a _plan_. I felt, for the first time in years, a brighter future almost at hand, and the smile I bit upon earlier might have slipped through my teeth once or twice.

Terror, because I think I was getting a first glimpse of exactly how far the mind of this man goes. Dividing Spain, but also dividing the Hapsburg's Empire. Straining the United Provinces. Nagging Hungary. God, he even mentioned the Turks. Joseph, calm as a mountain lake, spoke quietly of his planned visits to Russia, negotiating an alternative silk road, gathering trade treaties to bring in more wealth. Richelieu, jubilant, delicately evoked the wonders of Quebec, Dakar, Madagascar. God, this madman was pushing me from Palace intrigues to worldwide affairs in one single speech.

_Richelieu, devoured by ambition, they say. _

But God is he clever.

I think he could have talked for more hours, and easily so. Though his body was clearly failing him, his cheeks whitening by the minute and his steps losing steadiness to the point where Joseph had to grip his arm a few times, his speech was _frantic_. I had to blink, truly, because I got distracted by the transformation of his face, and I was caught by the wildfire in his eyes more than once.

He could have talked a lot more, but at some point, we heard another knock on the door, and Charpentier came in, bearing a small note in his hand.

Richelieu broke the red wax seal, read the two lines written there, and his breath hitched. The fire died in his eyes, the corners of his thin mouth crumbled. His knees almost gave out on him, and Joseph forced him to sit down for a while. He half-heartedly nodded his thanks, and though he still answered a few questions of mine, I sensed the joy seeping from his heart with every tired breath he took.

It felt like a curtain drawn over a sunlit window. It felt cold, and God, it felt _sad._

Now, despite Joseph's furious grumbling, he gets up again and gracefully bows for me.

“May I ask His Majesty for his permission to depart?” he lets out in a broken voice. “I have been summoned by the Queen Mother with … utmost urgency.”

Of course. I should have guessed.

The good obedient _creature_ needs to run back into my mother's lap. Armies, colonies and conquest will have to wait until she’s done _petting him_.

A surge of blind, white-light anger flashes through my guts, and I swear I want to slap his face until he bleeds. I shrug, turn my back on him and wave him away like a fly. I hear, _oh, how loud I hear_ the strangled sob torn from his throat. I don't look back.

A few footfalls. Joseph's voice telling him “_at least drink something before you go_”. Muffled and desperate words from Richelieu. Sliding, irregular footsteps. The study door slamming shut.

Silence.

I spin around, furious, but my eyes remain hungry for one last scrap of that dream we grazed, and look for that map of Europe again, only to find a crumpled note bearing Mother's seal left upon it.

Twenty words. Twenty disgusting words, slick with lust and avidity. Twenty words. One of them being “_bedroom_”.

I roar, throwing the note into the fire.

How can I lift France upon Europe’s balance of power if my own Palace is nothing more than a **_brothel_**?

Not bothering to utter a word to the priest, I stride to the door. But before I can touch the handle, Joseph's voice, still just as quiet as before, as if none of this had even touched his tattered robes, states with clear serenity,

“And yet, Sire, there is not a soul in this Kingdom who loves you more than this man does, nor will there ever be.”

I freeze. Turn around. He doesn’t move, hands clasped behind his back, his black, all-seeing stare aimed right at me. I open my mouth, shut it. He just smiles again, shark-like.

That troubled monk always seems to understand everything.

My breath shortened_, by_ _this unreasonable warmth no doubt_, I grunt a brief salute and leave this wretched place.


	3. November 2nd 1624, Royal Apartments, The Louvre, Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings : forced/duty sex (aka very sad smut)

There is always the same awful moment, every night, every time. I am standing in my bedroom, the valets are sliding my nightshirt on my shoulders, the hour is late, and I am exhausted. All I want is to send them out, all I want is blessed silence, my bed, _myself._

But one of them always ends up handing me my dressing gown, because mine is not the bed I am supposed to slide in first. There is another bed, in the opposite wing, where countless laws of ancient times want me to be. Every night, every time.

Because I am the last of the Bourbons, because I was born to be King, there are laws for every inch of my body, there are rules for every minute of my life.

Because one day, long ago, the rulers of the world decided it suited their purposes to sell two children to each other in a grotesque masquerade of a wedding.

Because no matter how hard I wanted to learn what a good King must know, siege war or ball dancing, politics or languages, names or dates, _everything_, it wasn’t enough. It never was. They pushed that girl in front of me one day, they put a heavy cloak upon my back, they sang solemn Masses in the Cathedral, and they told me she was my wife.

She was barely a few days older than I was, she spoke hardly any French, and she didn’t even like my face.

I sigh, clench my teeth, grab my dressing gown and put it on.

I walk away from my bed, growling, and step to the door, encircled by valets holding candelabras to light my path. Two corridors, the main hall, two corridors, her apartments. The loneliest march the Louvre has ever witnessed. Every night.

_Every time_.

I let the valets knock on her door, and dismiss them with a nod. Almost ten years have passed since that absurd wedding, and among all the battles I’ve had to fight, facing eight battalions of Huguenots in Montauban had been easier than winning the right to enter those damned rooms alone.

It's Madame du Vernet who opens the Queen's door tonight, bows, and lets me in. She doesn't speak, she doesn't stay. She steps out, closes the gates behind my back, and I could almost enjoy that short, fleeting moment of complete silence if duty didn't come crawling back around my skin like a disease.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur.” The Queen whispers.

“Bonsoir, Madame.”

I shrug off my dressing gown, lay it down upon the same armrest of the same chair, every night, every time, and take a furtive look at her view of the gardens. A few torches have been lit around the fountains, beaming their brave yellow light in the soft springtime air. She has the better view of my plane trees. I can only watch them thrive from here. Does she even notice them?

It doesn't matter.

Her rooms smell of too much perfume, her rooms smell musty. She's always afraid to catch a cold, and barricades herself in all year long, _God, would it hurt her to open a window?_

“Has your day been agreeable?” She politely asks, rolling her sheets aside and slipping in her bed.

“It has been. What of yours?”

“Quite pleasant, Monsieur.” She states.

I nod, untie the front of my nightshirt, and walk to her bed. I choose a safe place to fix my eyes upon. Yesterday, that small bouquet of daisies upon her nightstand did the trick alright. It'll do.

“Good.”

I climb on her absurdly soft bed, lie down next to her, throw the sheets upon us both, and open her chemise. I cup her left breast, she hums something. Her servants forgot to water those daisies. They'll be dead tomorrow. I wonder where she got them. Are the east gardens blossoming already? I’ll have to check someday. I stroke her stomach, her waist. She moans. I told her many times she didn't need to, but she insisted. She thinks it encourages us both.

It doesn't matter.

She crawls closer, her small hand searching between my legs, God, she's cold. She grabs me, unskilled and averse, rubbing me slowly, her forehead on my arm. Behind the daisies, I catch a glimpse of the stern high-backed chairs Mother's servants used to sit upon to watch us. I wince,_ don't think of it, don't think-_

\- they pushed us into the room, undressing us like overgrown dolls, and they kept babbling prayers, even as they showed us that vast bed.

I asked Mother if it could wait, I tried to claim I was feeling sick. She laughed and shrugged and walked away, but she made sure four of her ladies sat right there and _watched_.

I had no idea what to do. I didn't even want to know. I didn't even want to think.

She didn't even seem to like my voice.

I begged them to let us go, I tried to claim my head was spinning. “Two hours, Your Majesty” one of them breathed, and that was all they ever said.

God, I tried. _God, it hurt. _

She screamed in pain, I sobbed in shame.

All and they did was vomit prayers and _watch._

_Don't think of it, don't think - _

I squeeze my eyes shut, biting my lips, breathe in, breathe out. I grab her right breast, circle gently, she moans again, out of tune, out of key. She strokes me faster, and I need to think of hunting again. I focus on the sound of running horses, their mighty hooves breaking twigs as they rush upon the undergrowth. I summon the thrill of the chase, the weight of a gun. I picture the sunlight through the oaks and the hilltop of Versailles.

I cherish the feeling of twenty men and forty dogs at my slightest command. I remember the way my legs can hurt after a whole day of galloping, the steady staccato of a horse in his prime. I feel the wind upon my face, I hear gunshots, I smell powder.

I grunt and lie down upon her. She gasps, I don't care. I push away her chemise, spread her legs, and soon enough she guides me in, because what else could I have come here for?

God, she's cold. _She could be dead, she'd feel the same. _

She moans, praising me in scattered words. I don't believe any of them. I concentrate on the memory of that last black-tailed deer, the way he made me run. Six hours, my back was sore, my hands in agony. I bring back the sound of horns, the howling hounds. Ordering men and animals alike, cornering the stag in harmonious dances.

I remember the last blackened stare of the exhausted deer, torn and bleeding against that huge rock. His steaming breath, his panicked shudders.

She calls my name, her legs weakly trying to slow me down. I lick her neck and nipples to distract her, trying to find an inch of her rosy skin that isn't so damn cold. I thrust in faster, hiding my face into her shoulder, shouting at her, deep inside, to _keep quiet for God's sake._

The forest, the horses, the hunt. All men at attention, all dogs unmoving, and the forest itself bowing down to the sound of my pistol. I grab her pillow, bite her shoulder, she screams, I don't care.

The bullet piercing oblivion between the dark, dark eyes. All men cheering my name, throwing their hats. All hounds barking in joy. The prey has fallen.

  
The beast is caught.

I groan softly, spending myself into her, _at last_, I think, _something warm._

I lie there panting for a while, ten seconds at most before I pull out and release her. She instantly rolls away, wrapping herself in her sheets, but keeping a nervous hand into my hair, _oh, what’s the point?_

If it wasn’t for the relentless insistence of my dear departed de Luynes, I wouldn’t have stepped one foot into her rooms ever again after that first dreadful night. But though he proved to be a disaster on battlefields, the man knew about the duties of the Crown and reminded me that the whole of Europe was watching this bed, expecting a child to strengthen my reign.

Because I am the last of the Bourbons, because I was born to be King, because wars and Councils have never been enough. Leading men and wielding swords, greeting ambassadors and giving balls, none of this even matters if this woman doesn’t give me a son.

  
I swear I’d rather win half of France all over again from the hands of fifty thousand Spanish men than walk that walk for one more year. But I have come tonight, and I’ll come back tomorrow because every breath I take is for my country, every drop of my blood made for its glory.

I have come tonight and will come again because I don’t want the only Queen Mother of this Palace to be Marie de Medici. I am not sure Anne will do France any good, but I am already certain my mother never will.

I let out a shuddering sigh, and dart out of this linen prison, tying my nightshirt up again, quickly grabbing my dressing gown.

“I expect your presence for dinner tomorrow” I throw over my shoulder. “ De Sillery insists you must be seen for the reception of the Vatican delegation.”

“Of course, Monsieur.”

Now, that voice was truly weak.

I spin around frowning and walk back to the bed to inspect her face. Nothing much has changed, her clear blue eyes still staring at me in hope and bewilderment. Narrow mouth, flushed cheeks, dull blonde locks. Her hands timidly slide out of her covers, coming to grab one of mine as if she feared my anger.

I am far too tired for _anger._

She doesn’t seem ill, that’s all I wanted to know. I give her hands barely enough of a squeeze to remain considerate and snap free with a short nod.

“Have a good night, Madame.”

“Good night, Monsieur.”

Folding my dressing gown around my chest, I hastily leave the room, the doors opening at last with a flood of fresher scents.

The valets are waiting, eyes lost in the dark corridor facing them, holding their candelabras high as protocol tells them to. They escort me back to my apartments without a word, and for the first time today, I feel grateful.

Corridor, main hall, corridor, my rooms. The saddest walk the Louvre has ever witnessed.

My door gently clicks shut on cherished solitude, finally, _dear God._

I stride to the windows to open them wide and breathe in the cold night air, letting the November wind wash away the traces of her lips. For a second, I want to scream, something, anything, hard enough to hurt, long enough to faint. I only feel my fists clenching around the thin wooden window frame until it creaks a low complaint.

I am panting, I am dizzy, and yet I have barely moved.

My eyes search for the lights of the Palais Cardinal, I have no idea why.

Richelieu’s apartments windows are all dark.

My mother’s aren’t, _of course._

I turn around, hissing insults to the moon and stars, and grab a bottle of Court wine. I pop it open, search for a glass, find none, shrug and gulp it down straight from the bottle. Foggy and out of breath, I step back until my legs hit my bed. I sit upon it, watching the black outline of the Palais with sour rage. I might not have my own spiderweb of spies and informants, but I am neither deaf nor blind. I know what’s said in the Louvre, I know what’s said on the streets. I hear the chambermaids talking, I hear the butlers laugh.

She has him play the lute, they say. _She has him play all night._

“He is a brilliant Minister, he truly is.” I heard Du Vernet chuckle. “But his plans and visions for politics or state are never what she asks from him. He has all the gifts a man can have for words and delicacy, yes, but his flattery is all she’s interested in.”

“_All ?_” Marie de Rohan sneered back. “Hardly so! The Cardinal has many other talents I assure you, none of them including speech, some of them involving _tongue_, and of those the Queen Mother can’t seem to have enough.” 

She has him sit on her own bed they say, _until she has him lie down there._

She has him speak into her ear they say, _until she_ _has him beg and moan._

**Crash!**

The bottle shatters on the wooden floor, drawing a scarlet rose upon the oak planks.

_“**Behold, Louis the Thirteenth**_” I laugh out loud at the night sky, “accountable before God for a country soaked in sin!”

I slump back into the bed, not even trying to stop the dark snicker shaking me. The frozen November wind blows gently through the curtains, bringing in the clean, crisp air and the faint rumblings of my Paris. The wind, he understands. The wind is the only one I want to talk to.

She has him play the lute, they say. _She has him play all night._

I'd have him banned, if not shot down, I'd have him crushed, I swear I would if he had not drawn all of my wildest dreams upon a single map with his clear, cramped handwriting.

I groan aloud, burying my face into my hands, _what, dear God?_ What have I done to deserve **_him_** as the only man who could save France?

I remember ten years ago in the wide hall of the Petit-Bourbon.

The clerk announced the speech of the Clergy’s representative, and I remember the silence as he stepped in.

The Bishop of Luçon.

He bowed before the tribune they had me sitting in. I was young then, still crushed by my mother’s weight, boiling and trembling with so much repressed fury I was barely able to talk. I was a whirlwind, I was a mess, I was a lost ship abandoned at sea, a waste of strength without landmark. But he stepped in, he gracefully bowed, and I felt calm for the first time in years.

I had heard many voices praise his wits and subtleness, his charm, his knowledge.

But what I saw on that cold October day as he bowed in front of me, was raw hunger in glittering eyes, absolute force in lean, pale hands. Why is this man wearing black robes, I thought, he should be on a horse, leading armies to the East. He had a faint smile, eager and resolute, wild brown locks brushing his pale forehead. What is this man doing in Luçon, I thought, this is the kind of man I want to see around me.

I smiled back, I think because I didn’t know he wasn’t looking at me. But soon enough, he started to speak, and all doubt vanished.

His words were all for _Mother_.

While he fervently pledged the Catholic Church’s allegiance to the renewed Crown, he pronounced “Queen Mother” with such adoration I almost ordered to have him killed. Among the platitudes he obviously was told to speak, he slid a few sentences of his own I am sure, all of them balanced like soldier’s songs, marching on, flying high, lifted by his soft, steady voice right to the ceiling of the Hall. All of them rang true, all of them rang fierce, talking about homeland and justice, faith and unity, glories of centuries past, hopes for the future.

All of them spoke my deepest thoughts. None of them were meant for me.

I was King of France, rightful and sacred, but it seemed my huge, dull, hysterical horse of a mother was still able to take everything from me, including those perfect, passionate words.

Since the day Guards came to my room to tell me some deranged lunatic had pierced my beloved father’s heart with nothing more than a puncheon, I had never felt so _betrayed._

I swore to myself, on that cold October day, that I would bury that man back in the foul country town mud he came from, and make sure his name would never make its way up to my ears again.

Two years later, he appeared in Mother’s Council, a Ministry in his hands, a charming smile on his lips. I saw his face far too often, eyes low and hands joined, surrounded by my mother's dirty _clique_. I know he had made his own inquiry concerning my father's death, I know Father Joseph told him everything his bloody monks could gather. He was aware, just like me, of the whole plot having Concini's stench plastered upon it.

So how could he spend his life meddling with those _murderers_?

How could he expect me to trust him?

He left me no choice. I had the Italian killed like a dog, burned his witch wife to dying embers. And when I exiled Mother, delighted to breathe my own air for the first time, I cleaned my sight of her creature too.

A mistake, maybe. Mostly because sending her so far from my grasp only left Mother the space she needed to become the figurehead of every unsatisfied Grand from the South. May it rain or may it shine, Mother never could think by herself. She needs _influence_ as she needs food. And down there in Blois, or even Angoulême, her influences were out of my sight.

So I let subtle, clever Richelieu negotiate her return.

She stepped back into the Louvre, she sobbed as she embraced me tightly, she cried as she said she loved me dearly, she trembled as she begged for my forgiveness.

But as the child in me was almost fooled by the ghost of a mother's love, I met the dark, distant eyes of that Machiavelli in robes she dragged behind her and saw something bitter, something pained. Nothing much, nothing too obvious, just a dulled, silent disgust in the shadows of his eyelashes.

I knew then, I knew for sure the hard times were far from over.

Strange, indeed, that this useful warning, against all the odds, came from _him_.

Though he clearly wants me to beware, he never leaves her lap. He smiles at her, bows for her, praising her looks, gently sitting next to her to read aloud anything she pushes into his hands.

Though he clearly strives for things she cannot hear about, from the crushing of Spain's ambition to the defeat of the Grands, from poisoning the House of Hapsburg to alliances with Protestants, he still answers to her summons at night.

Every night. Every time.

“_Your Majesty, such a pleasure,_” his soft voice said.

“_He has many other talents._”

His wide eyes of anthracite, burning. Burning.

_Until she_ _has him beg and moan._

“That vicious beast, **_what does he want?_**” I cry at the cold November wind.

The wind, he understands. But though I listen, nothing comes, except the low rumbling of my Paris.


	4. January 6th, 1625, The King’s reception room, The Louvre, Paris.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning : violence, harsh manhandling

I am never truly hungry, except after battles and except after hunting.

  
That huge male boar took almost the whole day to die, pierced by five bullets, four of them mine. I'm sore, I’m exhausted, I think my hands are bleeding- _but how little I care._

_  
_I am hungry.

A fire has never been so welcoming. I finally feel my cheeks tingling with heat after hours spent in the freezing winds. Today, I have been free. Today, I have had time to think.

I order a pheasant chasseur, red Bourgogne, and applesauce, picking up a white sheet to write down everything that came to mind while riding in the woods. I make a quick drawing of a new kind of stirrup I’d like to see tested for cavalry, allowing soldiers to mount and dismount faster. I write a few names as replacements for mediocre officers and order those names to be summoned to the Louvre. I scribble a few lines of the siege strategy I’d like to discuss with De Toiras. When I’m done, I release a satisfied breath.

I sit at my table in the Reception room, enjoying the view of my gardens covered in snow. Two valets step close to remove my dirty boots, and I send them away. There will be time to clean up and attend Epiphany Mass later tonight, but right now my body and mind are finally content, and I want no one to spoil this moment.

The pheasant arrives soon enough, pleasing to the eyes and to the nose. I have it tasted because I must, but after that, I send everyone out. I take three bites, grunting in delight until a knock on the door crushes my solace to an end.

Pottier, my Master Butler, carefully steps in and bows low enough for it to be bad news.

“What is it?” I grumble.

“His Eminence de Richelieu humbly asks His Majesty for the honour of an audience,” Pottier claims, and I almost drop my fork.

It’s the first time he hasn’t sent Mother to ask me for anything.

Instinctively, I clench my jaw on a rush of wariness and thank God I’ve kept my pistol. But really, would he come here today to stab me in the chest?

I shake my head, blinking twice. I wanted to be alone. However, I am relieved he has stopped sending Mother to my rooms every time he needs to speak to me. She always barges in like a hurricane, cackling nonsense, swirling around, and the sound of her voice truly isn’t the sweetest thing on Earth.

I won’t discourage _that._

I nod my consent.

Pottier disappears, and soon after Richelieu gently walks in, heaps of documents held tight in his arms once more, closing the door behind his rivers of red silk. He seems surprised to see me having dinner, but I wouldn’t trust that. After all, he picked the exact moment I was alone and in a good mood to make his first approach. With this man, there are no coincidences.

He bows elegantly, and though it’s all very poised and appropriate, there is something sunny in his smile again, something breath-taking in his eyes. I gesture him to come closer.

“Come here, Cardinal.” I huff. “Do you wish to share my meal?”

His smile broadens, and for a second, he radiates joy almost beyond the borders of etiquette. But it seems genuine, so I let it pass. He shakes his head, though, whispering something about not wanting to deprive me of well-deserved nourishment.

He could slide around me in perfect silence if there weren’t this low rustling of fabric against the wooden floor. He comes to stand next to me, opening a large book next to my plate.

“The series of financial measures I suggested last year, “ he softly starts, “upon which Your Majesty had the kindness to agree, is already bearing fruit. As you may see, by the conviction of abusive middlemen in local governments, and seizing of all embezzled wealth, the Royal Treasury has gone from an overall deficit of four million to a bonus of ten.”

“In one year?” I gasp, my mouth still full.

“In ten months, You Majesty. Since Father Joseph, according to my instruction, is financing riots in Catalogne, distracting Spain from our lands, we can safely expect twice that amount to be gathered from the cleansing of the affairs of Languedoc and Roussillon.”

_Dear God, twice the amount of…_

I gulp down my mouthful of meat, empty two cups of wine.

Only then do I look up at him.

He’s still locked in his refuge stance, with hands joined on his stomach, head humble, shoulders dropped. If he were one of my hounds, he’d be offering his side. But I won’t be fooled, not now, not ever. The war force of a thousand horses is rumbling in his eyes, his fingers twitching with repressed energy.

He’s not shy; he’s _unstoppable._

“Sit down, Cardinal.” I let out.

He obeys, slow and graceful, watching my face with hope and trepidation.

“Does it mean we will be able to realise our plans concerning France’s army?” I ask, cautious.

“Much more, Your Majesty!” he suddenly exults, leaning closer in a whisper of fabric, a faint smell of soap and herbs coming to my nose.

I don’t think he’s ever been so close to me before. It isn’t as repulsive as I thought it would be. He’s cleaner than anyone else in Court. Right now, he’s much cleaner than me. He pushes more accounts on the table, along with that map of Europe I love to see in his hands. It often means good omens. He passes his thin fingers upon the map, and explains in a fervent voice.

“It could be the right time, if Your Majesty consents, to contact our friends from the United Provinces and discuss our plans for the future. In exchange for funds, Frédéric-Henri would gladly provide us with ships to protect our shores, and troops to push the Spanish away from Breda, in both his interests and ours.”

His glistening eyes meet mine, and by the way his face comes alive, I guess I am smiling. I nod some encouragement- as if he needs it.

He talks details, then, euphoric, eager, and yet dreadfully meticulous. Everything has evidently passed through the clockwork of his mind twice and given back to me in exhaustive, logical order. Hours pass, listing names and drafting letters, planning that strange undercover war that is the only one we can afford for now, and at some point I realize with astonishment that I have quietly finished my meal while talking to him, emptying my bottle of Bourgogne and opening another one, this time pushing a glass in front of him.

There is no wariness, no doubt, no side glances and double meaning anymore. We’re safe. _We’re comfortable._

The cold winter winds must have made me lose my mind. That wine must be too strong, the fire too warm. But there is, somewhere in the charcoal depths of his eyes, a picture frozen in time of the Etats Généraux eleven years ago, as that young exalted bishop bowed down in front of me with a smile on his face. That picture I never forgot almost makes me want to touch his hair.

But of course, just as my hand twitches, I hear a knock on the door. There is always one. There always will be. When the valet comes in, Richelieu pales as if an arrow just pierced his heart, and I know already, I know.

This servant is one of Mother’s.

He doesn’t stand up to take the paper; he looks like he just can’t. The valet has to lay it himself in his trembling hands. He unfolds the note, bites his lips, nods his compliance. The valet leaves.

After one last, desperate look for the map of Europe, he lets out a short sigh and says, his voice crushed to a whimper,

“If there isn’t a way I could be of His Majesty’s service anymore…”

_No, you can’t **dare**…_

You can’t dare let her whistle at you like a dog, not after disciplining seven provinces, refiling our Treasury, giving France her very first float, and designing four sieges in a row. You can’t do all those things for me and still crawl at her beck and call. I cannot, I will not_ tolerate…_

But he knows the essentials have been discussed already, and he knows that if I make him stay, I’d be admitting I actually enjoy this meeting, which I’d die before I do by now. _He knows_.

So he starts folding back his documents without a word, and the rise of pure anger I feel growing in my guts reminds me of those Etats Généraux far too much. I’d have him hanged, I’d have him exiled, I swear I’d have him shot down in his sleep if only he weren’t…

He folds the map of Europe away. He folds away my dreams of future France.

He moves to stand. _No, you can’t do that, you filthy snake, you can’t keep being her toy. I will not tolerate this sinful mess in my own house; I will not – _

**“Ah!”**

He cries out in pain as my hand grips his arm. I don’t care; I'd have him killed, I swear, cunning snake, tainted priest. I twist his shoulder to an agonising angle, forcing him to sit back next to me, pulling him towards me with a foul hiss I barely recognise.

“What does she make you do?” I growl.

He tries to squirm out of my grip, but if I can’t share his intellect, I’m for certain twice as strong as he'll ever be. All he can do is turn his head away from me, his eyes on the floor, his voice in pieces. He's shaking like a dead leaf, and he seems, right now, so easy to _break_.

“Your Majesty?” He cries.

“What does she make you do to her?” I spit in his ear, punishing each one of his desperate twists through a sharp pull towards me. “Do you sing her praise? Do you hitch her dress up? _Do you praise her there?_”

“Your Majesty, _please_.”

I can’t see all his face, only the hollow contour of his left cheek, but even so, his tears cannot be missed. What I took for a struggle was nothing else but sobs, but right now I don’t care. I’d have him killed, I’d have him hanged. His arm will bruise if it doesn't dislocate, and by the slow scratching of his feet upon the floor, I know the pain is unbearable. _Good. _

His skin is twitching under my grasp, and I slowly feel the heat seeping through his robes. He’s burning.

_He’s burning. _

“Do you let yourself be undressed like a puppet of a priest?” I dig further down into his open wound. “Do you let yourself be petted like the good dog you are? Do you let yourself be mounted and crushed like a beast of burden?”

His tears paint tiny stains of deeper scarlet into the silk of his robes as they fall from his white cheeks, and I notice with horror how breathless I am.

_How afire._

I realise, petrified, how my whole body exults at the sight, the sound, the touch of his pain. In my whole life of battlefields and war, in all the glory I ever knew, I never felt anything so intense, so violent, so _pleasurable_.

Oh, God, have mercy.

_I am damned. _

I gasp at the wave of confused disgust washing over me, but I still don’t release his arm. I loosen my grip a little, watching him slowly turn to me, his eyes red and swollen, his cheeks soaked.

I hear crumpled paper coming from the table. The outraged lament of our map under his spasming hand. There is a thin strand of silver hair glued to his cheek by streaks of tears. There is a growing bruise on his lower lip where he has bitten himself, no doubt.

There is still, through fear and agony, that disturbing glint in his deep stare, like a summer morning, like open windows.

Like sunlight through the woods.

There is no wariness, no doubt, no side glances or double meaning.

I don’t think I ever saw that spark of truth in his eyes when Mother calls his name. I understand with a shudder that if my mother has undoubtedly been his choice, she may not have been his _preference_.

_Oh, God. _

“Did you ever enjoy it?” I finally breathe, exhausted.

His stare darts up to mine, and again, a thousand ships could sink in that storm of anthracite.

“Not once.” He whimpers.

With that, I slowly ease my fingers off his arm.

As he gets up, trembling, and leaves, all I can think of, all I can feel, is the ghost of his warmth around my tingling skin.

I have been cold my whole life, but that man is burning.

_That man is burning._


	5. May 10th 1626, Royal Ballroom, The Louvre, Paris.

“No, no, stop there!” I shout.

The orchestra fades into a discordant mess and falls silent. Guédron, the conductor, frowns at his score in anguish and turns towards me. He's exhausted, I see that now, and I realise how late it is. Dusk fell hours ago, and we all should be in bed. I don't care. I won't fall asleep until I see this part played flawlessly.

I shake my head at Guédron; it isn't the music this time.

“The second and third rows are one beat late.” I throw at the dancers.

Some of them gasp, few of them sigh, all of them bow. I gesture towards the bottom of the ballroom, ushering them back there. I demonstrate the volte one last time, marking the tempo with my heels. My riding boots aren't the easiest to dance with, but they will have to do, it's too late for a change of footwear.

“One, two, three, bow, flip and turn,” I grumble. “You have to do it fast, or you'll miss the start of the drums. Start again from the ‘_Entrée des Moqueurs_.’

They quickly obey, and I clap my hands at the orchestra. The music rises to the ceiling in joyful pride, and the dancers step forward, this time spinning in flawless synchronicity. _Good. _I step back to enjoy the view of the rehearsal. It seems I chose my dancers well enough. It will be even better, with my dear Baradas as the leading role, and my lovely sister Henriette as his consort. It will need more drums, though. I will speak to Guédron.

Stepping back some more, I bump into the soft mattress of the Queen's dress and wince in apology. She only looks down and mutters her forgiveness-oh, _for God's sake could you at least look at me more than once every two months? _

“Your Ballet des Quolibets will be a delight for the eyes and ears of the Dutch delegation, Your Majesty” she politely comments.

_Oh, don't bother_, I almost say. The Spanish have no taste for dancing, and I know she hates Court ballets. She joyfully mocks them, I am sure, in those endless letters she writes to her brother. But since Mother is right behind her, I know better than to bring the subject of our dear Spanish _friends_ forward. I give back to Anne the smile she didn't offer and kiss her hand with as much warmth as I can fake.

It doesn’t lift up Mother’s spirits at all. She sighs heavily instead, fanning herself in the grossest pastiche of melancholy. Her emotions have always been a cheap comedy. All of them. She cannot conceive any sense of half-measure, nuance, or compromise. Everything has to be yelled, everything has to be painted in huge golden letters, everything has to be multiplied, inflamed, _deformed. _

Marie de Medici is sad. Her pathetic theatre performance has been on stage through the whole Palace and has been so for a whole week.

Something happened it seems, between her and her creature. My valets told me they heard her shout at him for hours on end in her apartments last Monday, half in Italian, half in the filthiest of French. They told me she broke the high mirror of her boudoir, a gift from my father.

What kind of woman breaks a _ten-foot-tall mirror?_

I watch her for a while, almost hidden by my wife's ruff. _God, she's enormous_. I barely recognise the slender Florentine on the portraits my father used to cherish. Her dark eyes looked so alive by then, her rosy lips so delicate. Now all that's left of her is standing there, wide as a bear, smothered by layers of thick brocade, her stare narrowed by ignorance and bigotry, her teeth blackened by sweets and negligence. Even the most expensive Italian powder fails to hide her crumbling skin, and God, the _smell of her. _

The valets told me Richelieu stood very still all along, his hands joined on his stomach, his eyes resolutely fixed on the window. They told me not an inch of his face moved, but by the obvious trembling of his handwriting in the note he had me delivered on the same day, I knew he was only standing his ground until he could be alone and let himself collapse.

On that note, perfect in respect and apology, he excused himself for health, asking me for permission to retire to his small house of Fleury. He didn't tell me why. He must have known the servants would talk.

_“Did you ever enjoy it?”_ I remembered asking.

_“Not once,”_ he said.

I let him go.

“Get the rest you need to return to my service as efficient as ever,” I think I wrote on the back of his note.

And quickly, on a whim maybe, I added something like “It is our will that you spare yourself.”

He's still poison in red, but I do need him after all.

Besides, though I hate him with every breath I take for choosing Mother over me that day so long ago in his hunger for influence, I have seen, by now, the price he has to pay, every day, every night, for that cunning scheme of his. Through charming my mother, he entered the Louvre, he even entered my Council Room, but no matter how successful, his strategy is also his punishment.

Because to be able to use her for power and prestige, he has to let himself be used in return.

Every night.

Every day.

For more than ten years.

Mother sighs again, loud enough to awaken the dead, and sweeps a sullen stare across my ballet. I know she's been writing to Richelieu, already begging him to come back, something he usually does much quicker than this time.

The tables are turning, are they not, Mother?

Tell me, how does it feel to have your affections ignored? How does it feel to be left with hurt and doubt in front of a locked door?

Tell me, dearest _Mother,_ for I think we’ve got a lot to share.

I wince, realising Anne has been talking to me for a while. I hope a gentle nod and a smile will give the illusion of my attention. They do. _Thank God. _

She wants both of us to retire to her rooms together, I think, and I quickly search through my usual reasons to be left alone, when I see the Commander Valençay rushing towards us. _Oh. I guess I won't have to lie this time._

“Your Majesty!” Valençay's powerful voice thunders in the hall. “Your Majesty, a word, please?”

I clap my hands to stop the music, dismissing the ballet with a nod. A collective sigh of relief fills the great hall, and they scatter in tired whispers. Valençay bows, taking off his broad hat, obviously shaken and strained by fast riding.

“What is it, Commander?” I ask.

“Your Majesty, I come straight from Fleury, at His Eminence's orders.” The broad soldier explains. “I need to speak to you. Alone, if it can be.”

I know Valençay well. The fearless, serious man has done efficient work in Montpellier. He didn't surrender in front of Soubise's men. He wouldn't ask this of me without good reason.

I glance over my shoulder at Mother's contorted face. She heard her creature’s name, and she’s ready to jump at my Officer's throat to tear answers out of him.

_Well, let's spare ourselves this disgrace, shall we?_

“To my rooms then, Commander,” I say, pointing at the door.

I lead, and Valençay swiftly follows. Mother, as expected, throws a tantrum behind my back, demanding to know, requesting an audience, muttering prayers, flaunting tears. I wave her away with a polite sentence. As always, dismissing her to silence fills me with deep, though bitter, satisfaction.

Once safely locked in my apartments, I offer Valençay a generous glass of wine, watching him gulp it down in a heartbeat. The man thanks me profusely, leaning against my table. His leg is almost continually twitching in effort since two bullets had pierced it in Clairac. I offer him a seat, he refuses. I order him to sit.

He obeys.

“Speak, now, Valençay.”

He seems to gather his thoughts, licks his lips, coughs. He passes a weary hand across his cheeks where branches along the way, no doubt, have left nasty scratches. There are twenty tricky miles from Fleury to the Louvre. His focused eyes stare at me as he reveals,

“A conspiracy has been unveiled, Your Majesty. The endgame was His Eminence's murder.”

_No. Dear God, **no**._

“Is the Cardinal alright?” I croak.

“Yes!” Valençay lets out quickly, raising his hands in a reassuring gesture. “Yes, he is. I made the traitors confess their crime in front of him myself before the plot truly unfolded.”

I close my eyes, take a deep breath. In God's name, _no one touches him_. He wrote down all my dreams; he drew that bloody map. He might be the only Minister in this miserable place I couldn't bear to lose, and I swear I'll have those bastards’ heads.

“Who did? _Who dared_?”

The Officer flinches, and I realise I have banged my fist on the table in anger. His mouth tenses and he stares at his hands for a while. It may be the first time I’ve seen him hesitating.

“Marshal D'Ornano,” he eventually breathes, “...and to my utmost shame, Henri de Talleyrand-Périgord, count of Chalais, my own nephew. You see, as his Eminence knew I had my own house near his in Fleury, he kindly invited me for dinner tonight, for he wanted to discuss the refinement of a few siege strategies...”

_Ha. _That's what I thought. Richelieu isn't sick at all. He has just moved his work to a quieter place.

“Go on,” I demand.

“The Count of Chalais insisted on coming with me, which I must admit, was unusual. Your Majesty is aware the Cardinal always offers a well-stocked table. Well, my foolish nephew abused the wine and at some point began to brag, telling me he knew a gentleman of the Court was meant to arrive in Fleury unannounced with his entire suite tomorrow night. The Cardinal would not refuse them hospitality, then, and they would all remain quite affable until a pretence fight sparks between two Courtiers. The fight was designed to turn messy, involving more and more men, until a shot is fired towards the Cardinal, allegedly by accident, and hit him in the head.”

I inhale sharply. A bullet to his _head._

Barbarians. There isn't a scrap of honour in their miserable souls.

“I didn't lose a minute.” The commander adds. “I dragged Chalais in front of His Eminence and forced him to repeat what he just said to me. The lad obeyed. He didn’t miss a thing, including the most gruesome details, and the Cardinal…”

“Richelieu fell _sick_ again, didn't he?” I cut in.

The Commander’s thick eyebrows shoot up, but his square face remains tainted with a deep, sincere shade of respect.

“No, Your Majesty, not at all.” He claims. “The Cardinal listened very quietly. Then he ordered a few of his trusted friends with military training to keep Chalais locked in Fleury, and sent me straight to Your Majesty. I’d never expected such bravery from a man of the Church.”

I frown. _No, something isn’t right. _

“Where on Earth is he now,” I growl, “if he isn’t nailed to his bed by a fit of nerves?”

Valençay looks panicked for a second, and he is a man who didn’t twitch as the Huguenots aligned fifty cannons in front of his army line.

“He-” the soldier stammers. “As I was leaving, he was ordering a carriage to be prepared. He said he intended to ride to Fontainebleau before dawn.”

“At my brother’s house? Why?”

“Because, your Majesty, the gentleman of the Court who was supposed to barge in and start the fight was His Highness, Gaston d’Orléans.”

My empty glass falls upon the wooden table without breaking, but as it rolls in a graceful figure over the edge, it shatters to pieces between my feet.

“**_What?_**” I yell, banging my hands flat upon the table, unable to breathe, unable to think.

Gaston, the cherished son. Younger, fairer Gaston, the delight to my gloom, laughter to my silence. Gaston, pressed against our Mother's chest, being praised for my deeds. Gaston, sneering at my misery as I am blamed for his mistakes. Gaston, messy and warlike, and yet wrapped into our Mother's love, the one that was always denied to me.

As long as Anne doesn't give me a son, Gaston is the direct heir to my throne, and of course, of course, why wouldn't he want to bring me down? By killing Richelieu, he ensures I will be unable to achieve all I have planned for this Kingdom, and rightfully demand my abdication as France spirals into ruin.

“Filthy treacherous _pig_!”

Valençay starts, watching me in awe, and he gets up in a jump, bowing for orders. There is deference in his eyes, but I read sympathy clear as day too. I don't want sympathy. _I want blood. _

“And you say the Cardinal wants to ride to Fontainebleau at the break of dawn? Alone?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The soldier nods. “He should be on his way there as we speak. He didn't tell me why. He looked... determined.”

“The raging maniac, he is! Gaston wants him dead, and he runs straight into his house!”

“I could ride to Fontainebleau with ten men at once, Your Majesty, and be there in half a day.”

I sigh. My mouth hurts. I have been biting my cheeks. I send a worried look through the high windows. It's too late to prevent Richelieu from doing whatever he has in mind. By sending Valençay to Paris, he made sure I’d be informed too late to stop him. After all, through sickness and insanity, the bastard always knows what he's doing.

He always has a plan.

Richelieu doesn't want to die. The fire in his eyes as he unrolled that map should be enough evidence. He wants those dreams achieved, maybe even more than I do. And, yes, he is brilliant. He reads people like open books, he sniffs their scent in the breeze, and he has their whole lives stored in his secret files. So if he chose to run to Fontainebleau, it certainly not by foolishness. He has shown me many times that it's not because I don't understand his thinking that I shouldn't approve of it.

I can trust his wits. It may be to my most profound rage, but I know I can.

“No.” I let out. “Let's see how things unfold. I have no doubt we will hear from the Cardinal before noon tomorrow.”

I dismiss Valençay with praise for his loyalty. I make a mental note to translate this praise into a Governor position later this year. His leg is obviously torturing him; I can't let this man fight anymore.

As the door slides shut behind the good soldier's limping footsteps, I let myself fall into the chair he vacated, and bury my face into my hands.

Bloody snake, you made sure I wouldn’t sleep, didn't you? Are you laughing, you wicked lunatic, alone in your carriage through the dark of night, running to one of my own blood who planned to shoot a bullet between your eyes?

I swear to you, I'll have you beg for mercy. As soon as you come back.

This shall be a very _long day. _


	6. May 11th, 1626, The King's apartments, The Louvre, Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning : denial of assistance, psychological abuse

This should be my favourite thing. This should be good.

Toiras is a mountain, tall and broad, with thick wild hair and deep rich voice. I always liked this kind of man. He is unwavering and confident, and his wide comical gestures never fail to cheer me up.

Besides, we both used to have this stuttering curse, and while I learned to fight it when I pushed Mother's smothering presence away from power, Toiras still suffers from it. It makes me feel perhaps more affection towards him than I should. The fact that he remains one of my bravest, brightest Officers certainly doesn't help.

He came in this morning, with the most magnificent scaled model of those new fortifications we thought about for Paris and delightfully accurate miniatures of battalions and siege machines. He's been working hard, I see, to show me how the strategies we devised could work, and the wine he offered me from his lands in Gard is impressive to the senses.

This should be my favourite thing. 

But I barely listen to him.

I keep watching the windows, listening for footsteps in the corridor, waiting in growing frustration for the red-painted carriage to be announced.

I didn't sleep, and it shows.

I am aware I have been the foulest I could be with blameless Toiras, but I am too worried, too furious to care. 

All that's running through my mind are flashes of pain at another of my brother’s betrayals, the sentences I'll have to pronounce, the letters I'll have to write. And every time I try and remind myself how I despise this bastard in red, playing his life like a game of cards when there is so much work to be done, I only remember that fire in my skin, that glorious feeling of raw power as he sat twisting in agony in my grasp.

_“Your Majesty, please.”_ He cried.

The thought alone almost makes me lose my breath.

God, have mercy._ I am damned. _

I am cursed, corrupted, tainted by the witchcraft of that man, losing my mind. Losing myself. The fire in my guts at the memory of his tears must be a warning bell from Hell itself.

_Heavens, what have I become? _

He had no right to do this to me.

Toiras laughs, in thunder and roars, and I smiled instinctively, because that man is a rumbling force, and he feels like a hearth in wintertime. Noticing, no doubt, how he can't seem to lighten my mood today, he frowns a bit, pours me another glass, and tries in a lower voice,

“I-I wonder what the C-Cardinal would think of this d-device.”

I huff a bitter laugh.

Poor Jean. He actually likes that red-clad beast. This precious, honest man doesn't know that precisely because he is everything Richelieu will never be, the Cardinal surely hates him with all his might.

“Oh, I’m sure he'd find a lot to say about it.” I muse with half a smirk.

He laughs again, and I feel him fighting the urge to clap my back. I shake his hand and pat his arm twice because, in fact, I wish he had. There's emptiness in me; it seems I was born with it, and it used to be soothed by this kind of man's presence.

Today, it isn't anymore. _It doesn't seem it'll ever be again. _

A knock on the door.

A look through the windows.

A spot of red in the gardens.

All thought dissolves to the fire in my guts, and I clench my teeth in self-disgust again. _God, what have I become? _The witchcraft of that man. I might travel to Rome this year, I might fast for three whole days, oh I'll pray, I'll beg alright, but I fear it'll do nothing to quench that want.

_God, forgive me, but you put into this man too much of what I need. _

I thank De Toiras with haste, but by his raw, open smile, I know he doesn't mind. He leaves the model on my table, asks me to let him know how much Richelieu will disapprove, bows widely and walks out of the room laughing. 

The valet that was waiting at the door lets him pass in nervous reverence, comes in, bows, and announces the Cardinal.

“Lead him here at once,” I order. The valet disappears.

I stand, unmoving, counting time, trying to calm myself down, knowing I can't, fearing I’ll start to shout before he begins to speak. I shoot an angry glance at my reflection in the wide mirror above the mantelpiece. I didn't sleep, and it shows.

Eventually, the valet comes back, his steps careful, his face anxious, obviously impressed by the tall statue in blood red silk following him.

I have never seen such a hurried bow, such a relieved departure in that servant of mine. Now I think about it, Richelieu does that to every valet I have.

The Cardinal slides closer, and I narrow my eyes.

He is impressive, indeed, very still, very poised. He is everything elegance can offer, with his hands joined upon his chest under the folds of his brocade cloak, his gait refined and aerial.

_But God witness, I won't be fooled._

I see how rigid his spine is, how thin his lips are. He's white as a sheet, his eyes circled in three ugly shades of red. His breath is scattered, irregular, maintained only by an iron will and long practice, and that low wheezing sound in his chest speaks of nothing good.

_He’s in ruins._

Well, I wanted to shout, I wanted to growl, and he’s here now, so why don’t I?

Where is my rage, where has it gone?

_All I feel is that soft, disturbing fire, Hell, am I sick? _

I offer him a glass of Toiras' wine, but he shakes his head, silent and restrained as if unclenching his teeth was too much to ask. I step closer to inspect his face, searching for injury, but the sly beast steps back, _no, don't you dare hide away from me._

“Don't move.” I snap.

He flinches, painfully steeling himself, and though he lets me approach, his hands begin to shake frighteningly, so hard he cannot hide them anymore. His fingers are bleeding. For God's sake, are those _bite marks_?

I watch his pale cheeks, his ravaged stare. Fever didn't wait. He's visibly burning, a shimmer of cold sweat shining on his temples. He's standing only by a thread. God, he's about to break.

“You look miserable.” I spit.

He still cannot open his mouth, all I hear is a whimper.

I can't bear the sight. I turn my back on him, walk to the model, and graze it with my fingertips. That fire in my guts, Hell itself calling. _Filthy snake, what have you done to me?_

“Blame yourself for your pain, Cardinal.” I throw over my shoulder. “You have been a reckless fool. What on Earth did you have in mind, going straight to Gaston's house? What did you do to him?”

Three seconds of silence.

“Nothing.” The ghost of his voice utters.

I spin around.

This man has always been a seawall. A superbly designed, sturdy layer of composure facing an ever-roaring storm. Behind the wall, you can feel safe. But let the wall be breached, and you witness, terrified, the mighty winds of destruction that have been howling there all along.

His eyes are gaping breaches today, and I watch in alarm the dangerous glint of insanity raging in his dark stare. I heard madness runs in his family. I heard the most unsettling rumours. I guess, by now, that the seawall he built around himself is the only thing that keeps his genius mind working. If that man weren't strong as a castle, resolute as a beast, he'd be _barking mad._

I feel a pang of wonderment for the tremendous effort he has to endure every bloody day, just to keep standing. Just to keep living.

“What happened in Fontainebleau?” I ask, softer maybe.

He breathes twice, deeply, and I instinctively wince at the horrible wheezing sound. Then he talks, and by sheer willpower, he manages to summon a very calm, very clear voice.

“I simply paid an early morning visit to His Highness, your brother, Cardinality allowing me among the privileged people witnessing his morning routine, and offered him his shirt as etiquette dictates me to do.”

I stare. I know I'm staring, I can't help it. The _nerve _of that wicked...

“I told him I only regretted that he couldn't let me know any sooner of his intention to visit me in Fleury.” He gently added. “I assured him that as my house couldn't be properly prepared in time for His Highness and his suite, I was gladly offering him my own rooms, retiring myself straight away to the Palais Cardinal.”

_Bloody Hell. _

I step back and lean against the table. Damn. I hadn't thought about it. It is a shrewd move. He made sure Gaston knows his scheme is discovered, without even mentioning a scrap of it. Doing that, he struck fear in Gaston's heart, but he also left me complete freedom to let it pass unnoticed, or punish him instead.

“And what did Gaston say to this?” I gasp.

“Not a word, Your Majesty. He seemed... stunned for a while. The remnants of a good night's sleep, I would guess. I took my leave and rode straight to the Louvre, as you may see.”

I have to blink a few times, my gaze lost on the parqueted floor.

Richelieu not only won the game but offered me the luxury of choice. It is an option I hadn't considered. I can actually decide who to crush, and who to spare.

I want d'Ornano gone, for sure. Maybe Chalais. But what to do with Gaston? _Should I..._

“Now, if Your Majesty would have the kindness to allow me...”

His voice broke again. I snap out of my thoughts to look up at him.

_Oh, God. _

The trembling has reached his very spine, and his hands are whitening, clasped on the last scraps of his resolve. His legs are weak. The seawall is creaking.

He's hazy with fever, his eyes already blurred. He started stepping back again, obviously terrified of breaking down in front of me, hoping he might hold on until the safety of his rooms. He'd lick his wounds there, locked away from the whole world until that seawall of his is repaired, and walk out standing tall, that clever smile plastered on his lips again.

_No_. I'll have none of that.

I could release him of this torture on a nod, but the truth is, Cardinal, _it seems you're out of luck. _

I want to see you torn open. I want to see the sea storm. I want to watch the depths of you, because if there's a chance I'll find answers to that sickening heat in me there, then you will break, Richelieu, you will break down in front of me right now.

All I have to do is keep silent. It won't be long, he has but seconds left.

His sliding backward stops halfway to the door. He knows he cannot leave without my consent. And he guesses, by now, that I don't intend to give it. He's gasping, panicked, the insanity in his eyes barely veiled by exhaustion.

He lets out another whimper, more desperate this time, and wraps his arms around himself. His hands grip his sleeves, he seems to gasp for air, and with a strangled sob, he slides to his knees.

“Your Majesty, _please_.” He cries.

He said that before. I try to ignore how good it feels.

As if the world finally fell into place. As if my title was finally spoken right. As if my Crown meant something at last. As if I was King, truly, completely, unquestionably.

Forevermore.

Say that again.

_Cry, vicious beast, cry for me. _

I walk close. Close enough to step upon the rivers of thick silk around his shaking frame, looking down at him with raw curiosity, like those eccentrics in the colonies watching insects all day long. He presses his damaged hands against his mouth, forcing himself into silence, and yes, indeed, he is biting his fingers to blood to do so, _does he do that often?_

I won’t ask, because abruptly, he starts to cry.

He cries, eyes squeezed shut.

He cries, shaken by violent sobs, trembling like a man dying in the snow.

I thought he'd be louder. I thought he'd be hysterical, a bit like my mother. _He's not. _

He cries, and if truth be told, the sight of him is beautiful. The heavy robes draw a graceful circle around his legs; it makes him look even thinner if that could be so. The sounds he makes are soft, delicate, and there is elegance, even in the way he crumbles. He could be painted on Notre Dame's Stations of the Cross, crying on Golgotha with both Saints and common men.

He cries, it doesn't seem to end, and I don't want it to.

I feed upon the sight of his tears sliding along his hollow cheeks, and I feel that fire in me roaring like a lion. He's on his knees, he's at my feet, he's in pieces, and I am whole.

My rage is gone, my fears vanished, my worries tamed.

My loneliness and my despair, my longing, my emptiness.

All drowned into the rain of his own storm.

The world has fallen into place. _God, he is beautiful. _

Before I realise it, my fingers pass through his hair. It's soft, warm, and enticing. Countless hues of silver shine for me in the morning light, and when I hear his crying cease, I understand I am stroking.

I cannot stop. I will not. _I don't want to._

He briefly wipes his face with his abused hands, wincing at the salt water on his wounds, and he looks up at me, his unfocused stare glistening with agony. I recognise the pain of those headaches he has, only much, much worse.

This time the seawall is broken, the storm is howling, and he cannot even speak. He only whispers, in a dull, distant voice, scattered words about the world wanting him dead, about his soul being worthless. He asks, dizzy with fever and despair, that I allow him to write his resignation letter and retire to a place where he'd be forgotten.

“I won't survive,” I hear him plead. “I won't survive this strain on my own.”

He begs me to let him go, he tells me twice how useless he is, and at some point, his speech loses all logic, his sickness being the only thing left to be heard.

I hear a soft voice rise then, and I hardly think it's mine.

“I don't want to hear such things anymore. You will continue to serve me as efficiently as ever. Our work will be done just as we planned, and nothing, do you hear me, _nothing_ will compromise that.”

Something magnificent lights up through the whirlwind of his insanity, like a lighthouse coming back to life on a distant shore. Tears are dripping from his wide, exhausted eyes again, but I don't think they're the same as before. He stays very quiet for a few seconds, and gently, slowly, he leans forward, an echo of a bow. He rests his cheek against my thigh, his slender hand coming to grip the fabric of my pants, barely an inch above my knee.

Warmth spreads right to my chest, unstoppable and fierce, like the tide, like the wind. He doesn't make a sound; it's me I hear gasping.

I forgot how to breathe.

All my life has been so cold, and yet.

_I am burning. _

Everything is aflame, my skin, my heart, my mind, my soul.

I look down at him, panting and crazed, every inch of my body screaming in maddening need. I watch his eyelashes, his thin fingers, his parted lips, and _I want them all. _I want to haul him up and devour his mouth, I want to tear this red silk apart. I want the taste of his skin so bad I'm almost feeling sick.

My fingers in his hair descend to his cheek, feeling tears and fever there. I stroke his heated skin, the softest I've ever known, and he leans into the touch. I carry on, mesmerised until my thumb touches his mouth. The sigh he gives, as I feel his breath upon my finger, drives me mad with desire.

I want him. _I want everything._

** _No. _ **

“No.” I croak and shake myself free with a jump.

He lets me go, eyes down, silent. I step back, out of breath, nauseated.

_What has he done to me? God, forgive me. _

I am burning. _Burning in Hell. _

Cunning snake, tainted priest, _you had no right to corrupt me. _

I'll have you exiled, if not shot down, must everything you touch be soiled with sin?

The Red Beast of my palace, what did I do to deserve you?

He doesn't look at me. He knows I couldn't bear it. I stumble back to my bedroom door, stopping only as my back hits the wood, making both of us start.

“Get out of here whenever you can.” I breathe.

His face twitches in pain as if I shot him in the guts. The wheezing gets steadily worse until it becomes awful. He sobs something I cannot hear, and though I was sure he'd try and get up, he only collapses on his side upon the floor like a rag doll.

I take too much time watching the way his eyes roll back and close, the way his fingers finally stop shaking. I take far too much time watching him lie there in a heap of red fabric, his silver hair painting his face in highlights of snow.

The wicked creature, the clever demon.

The Snake of Eden who drew all my dreams on a map of Europe.

_ I am burning, what has he done to me? _

As I walk out and lock myself in my bedroom, leaving him there without a word, I ask for God's forgiveness once more, because until now, I have never run away from any battlefield.


	7. June 5th 1626, Council room, The Louvre, Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning : violence, abuse, blood

“Anything else before we end today's Council?” I ask distractedly as I sign the tax accounts for Guyenne and Limousin.

This has been a dark, dark week.

As I had stepped back from my bedroom five days ago, Richelieu, of course, had gone without a trace, nary a hint he was there at all. I didn't catch a glimpse of him for two more nights, and when I did, it was as if none of this had ever happened.

He walked into the main hall with the Dutch delegation and led them to my throne to perform flawless presentations. The only proof I didn't dream it all was the fact that he never once pulled off his red gloves. The bite marks, I suppose, needed time to heal.

This put aside, he has been _superb_, cordial and charming, in graceful smiles and gentle bows, making the Dutchmen gape and my mother swoon. He has been brilliant, making up treaties as he ordered wine, his hawk Joseph perched on his arm, whispering secrets into his ear.

The seawall had been repaired.

The whole delegation, one by one, came to me to congratulate me on my wise choice of Minister, but my _Minister_ didn't look at me for one second more than protocol dictated.

I indulged myself in believing the anger I felt was righteous. But that fire, truly, never left my skin, in every heartbeat I spent in the same room as him. I have been praying, I have been fasting. I have been attending all Masses Sainte-Chapelle could hold. But God has left me alone to burn in silence.

My punishment, I guess, for being soiled with sin.

Richelieu asked me for _one_ audience, yesterday evening, and it was for the worst kind of news.

His ever-watching web of spies had him informed that the papal authorities had given the strongholds of Valteline, in Northern Italy, to the Grisons, officially conceding to Spain a free passage for troops and trade. With that, the Pope is letting Spain unify her territories in the South and the East, tightening the noose around France's neck.

He kept his eyes low, his stance poised, he offered a few genuine smiles, a few peaceful gestures, but bloody well made sure to never stand closer than five feet from me all along.

The seawall had been repaired, refortified, and obviously _reinforced with loaded cannons_.

The whole Palace heard me growl as I demanded an emergency Council.

That council of mediocre men didn't even dare to move a finger today, overwhelmed and terrified by the papal authority. After a while, of course, Richelieu started talking. He kept his words ambiguous, he kept his meaning blurred, but I read in between words that he wouldn’t recoil from war against the Pope himself to make Valteline French again, and unclench Spain's vice. He spoke of nothing more than what I craved for deep inside, once again, _once more. _

He gently said he intended to write to the Vatican. I approved.

No one even seemed to look surprised.

He drives me mad, he enrages me. If I look for his red robes in the corridors of the Louvre, I feel soiled and corrupted. If I avoid his very footsteps, I feel empty and cold. He is my curse, he is my death.

But truth be told, he works just fine.

Amazingly.

He works _amazingly. _

Everything I ask is done the very next day. Everything I forget, he remembers. Everything I picture, he writes, and what I don’t think of, he quietly suggests. For his duty, I admit, he bleeds himself dry. He barely eats, he never drinks, he works himself to the brink of sickness, pushing documents in front of me even if he can barely stand. I wonder if he even sleeps.

At the price of all this work, he has naturally slipped from _a_ Minister to _the_ Minister. Most councils end up with only him talking anyway.

We always agree.

No one ever seems to be surprised anymore.

“If you please, Your Majesty” he humbly breathes, pulling three sheets out of his folder.

He gently slides them under the tax accounts, coming to stand next to my chair and explain in a respectful voice, “I have taken the initiative of drafting a speech for next week's reception with the ambassador of Denmark. To help Your Majesty save his precious time.”

I frown, pushing the accounts aside to read his 'suggestion'.

_Ha._

Just as I thought. This is no _draft_ at all, isn’t it?

  
It's the whole bloody speech, from introduction to conclusion, all wonderfully carved in his smooth, delicate, _personal _style. _Oh no, you won't_. Not today, not after five nights where God couldn't seem to care if I don’t sleep anymore.

I won't bear this arrogance to my face, wicked priest. Do you think they won't notice it's not me talking, do you think they won't see? Is this what you want, vicious beast, to have them all witness the King of France croak up your words like a parrot?

_Never. _

“Do you take me for a child, Richelieu?” I growl.

He steps back, jaws tight, chin up, only a twitch of his hands as a clue of his surprise. He heard the warning in my voice, but I've seen that resolve in his eyes, and it never once ended well.

The seawall is repaired. It's stronger than ever.

“Your Majesty?” He tries, only one tone down, _oh, you'll yield alright, you filthy snake. _

“Do you think me so _dense_ that you feel the need to write my own speech for me?”

My nails hurt from scratching the table, and I feel rage freezing my eyes, but he barely blinks, frowning just slightly. He knows, he knows me alright, but he stands his ground, relentless, stubborn. 

“Majesty,” He soothes, his voice in perfect balance, his gloved hands floating in a slow ballet I wish I had written. “I know how important this meeting is for our future trades and alliances; I merely wished to relieve you of the burden of diplomacy.”

No, not me. Everyone else may swallow your honeyed lies with a satisfied smile, but not me. You will know your place, you will lower your eyes, you will speak the truth, or I swear I will tear you down.

“I will not blindly speak your words, _Cardinal_. I am not one of those Gazettes you pay for your own praise.”

He looks almost like he could take another step back, a brief flash of pain in his narrowed eyes. The seawall cracks, and for a second I think I hear the storm. His breathing loses its rhythm, and he runs back into his refuge stance, hands joined tight to keep them from shaking.

But though a hint of supplication is starting to rise in his voice, his face remains white marble and darkest night as he whispers, “There is a lot to speak, and the audience will be plenty. I merely thought Your Majesty would be more comfortable with a bit of _support_.”

_No. _

_No, you can't seriously refer to my...no, you wouldn't **dare** to- _

I get up in a whirl; my chair hits the tiled floor.

“What are you s-suggesting?”

Oh Hell.

I did stutter, didn't I?

He bites his lips, his frown anguished and stricken, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, the_ bastard_, because I just proved his point. I close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out, _come on, focus_, just the way you did that night when you ordered them to shoot that Concini scum down.

One word after the other, _come on, calm down. _

Trembling with fury, I slowly turn my head to the circle of useless faces sitting at my Council. Half of them are terrified, the other half unbearably_ compassionate. _

They all heard.

_Oh, I swear I'll have you beg, cunning priest, I'll have you crushed under my foot. _

“Council dismissed.” I rumble.

They scatter from their seats like a flock of birds. La Vieuxville even abandons his papers there, and two of them leave their hats on the table. I don't look back at him until they've all left the room.

When I do, he's scared enough to avert his eyes. He's heaving slightly, his gloved hands clasped on each other, but his face still shows clearly his certitude that he is- right.

And maybe he is. Maybe this speech is exactly what I'd have written, only better shaped, better balanced. Maybe he has laid down on paper nothing more than my thoughts once more, and maybe I’d stutter less with those papers in my hands, but I will not have him step forward in front of the whole Council to _compensate_ for my flaws. I will not allow that man to use his gifts to remind the world of my own impairments.

_I'll have him remember he's only breathing to serve me._

“Look at me.” I hiss.

He does, distressed, and opens his mouth to speak. I clench my fist around his three sheets of paper with a sharp warning.

_“Quiet_.”

He obeys with a whimper. Again, a surge of buzzing warmth threatens to take over my guts. I squeeze it to death with hatred and make a show of ripping his sheets in halves, in quarters, keeping his wide stare locked in mine.

I throw the shreds on his red robes, watching him wince in heartbreak as they flap against the silk and gracefully disperse on the floor. His breathing is definitely faltering by now, his eyes glassy, his cheeks pallid. The silent throb of headaches is back upon his temples. _Good. _

“Do that again,” I snarl, leaning towards him with all the disdain I can muster, “and I'll have your blood.”

He flinches, wheezing, and takes two shuddering steps back. I have time to see tears break in his eyes before he looks down and bows, muttering a tense apology.

I turn around and leave him there, banging the door behind my steps, wondering if he'd fall on his knees again. Chasing away a rush of pleasure at the thought of it.

*** 

I refused him three audiences after that.

For the first one, he sent a note in his own hand. He announced a good report upon our latest trades with the lands of Russia and offered to expose the financial opportunities of continuing them. I sent his own note back to him with an order to deliver a written report.

For the second, he indeed sent a very detailed report. A whole bloody book of it and after five readings I still didn't understand a half. I suspected the sly bastard of having made it deliberately obscure and intricate to force me to ask him for explanations. _Hah_. _Dream on_. I summoned all the men in the Louvre with expertise on the subject to have his report clarified for me. It required two days, and it required five men, but I didn't call _him_, and that's all that matters.

For the third one, he had his Charpentier deliver me a pile of very irritating pamphlets and poems about the _dry and callous desert_ the Queen's belly was, signed by a certain De Caunes. A note in the margin, his handwriting wobbling and feverish, told me he already had the man searched for and found, and asked me what I wanted to be done with him. “_Death,_” I told his secretary as I handed back the filthy papers. Before he left, I still asked if the Cardinal was sick again. Charpentier confirmed he hadn't left his bed in two days.

I think I laughed, though not as harshly as I wished to.

Today, I stand in my bedroom, my dressing gown in my hands, ready to walk my sad path to the Queen's apartments again, when the valets announce _His Eminence_ waiting at my own door with the Count of Louvigny.

I can understand the red snake making a desperate move as I already turned down three of his attempts, but _Louvigny? _ Louvigny is loyal to the bone, and far too stupid to even conceive any kind of duplicity. Richelieu wouldn’t dare to use him for any purpose of his own, the man being such an idiot the risks would be too big.

It drives me mad to finally be forced to concede and allow him to talk to me. I wanted to be free from the sound and sight of him for at least a whole week. But Louvigny cannot be part of his plans, and there must be something serious happening.

I nod, sending the valets away as they let them in.

After all, it saves me from _that walk_, and for that, I am more grateful than I should be.

They both step in, Louvigny first, Richelieu close behind. I don't think I've ever seen joyful, careless Louvigny so pale before, his gestures hasty and panicked as he removes his old hat and bows. The monster in silk offers, of course, the most graceful of salutes.

He's obviously still sick, white as a sheet and shaking, but he seems moved by some dark, foul energy, his eyes ignited with something vile, something dangerous.

I realise I feel like stepping back, and I nail myself to the floor with sheer rage.

“What is it?” I spit. “I have other business to attend to.”

Richelieu's face doesn't move. He just nonchalantly pushes Louvigny forward, ignoring the man's growing terror, and nods at me with determination.

“Speak, Count.” He breathes, and God, his restrained voice is flat-out _terrifying_.

Louvigny bows again, and stammers in fear and respect, “Your Majesty, the most upsetting news has come to my ears by accident. I am, as you know, one of Marie de Rohan's friends. The Lady has been relentlessly courted by the Count of Chalais for more than a year now. This late afternoon, as I was enjoying her company, Chalais barged in to proudly announce that he had awakened His Highness your brother's vindictive willpower once more and that they were both ready to take... action.”

Chalais. Again.

I have a quick glance for Richelieu. He's standing tall, chin up, narrow eyes fixed on me with what looks very much like resentment, and God, I have no idea if that force pushing him so is made of anguish or anger, but I don't like that attitude_ at all_.

“Action?” I let out.

Louvigny visibly chokes on his own breath, and I know by the good man's panic that something nasty is coming up. The Red Beast hisses some ice-cold encouragement, his hand coming to grab Louvigny's sleeve with a strength that is everything but comfort.

“They intend to poison His Eminence at the reception for the ambassador of Denmark” The brave man gasps, his eyes on his own boots, “as the gifts from the Ambassador can't be tasted for diplomatic reasons. After that, the same fate is planned for Your Majesty himself, to … make way for the Queen's ultimate wedding ...to His Highness d'Orléans. As His Eminence is known for his wisdom, I came to him straight away to tell all.”

Curse my _blood_.

My dressing gown falls on the floor with a soft hiss, and I feel cold, _so cold_ all of a sudden.

Gaston, the cherished son. Wanting me dead. _Wanting me dead. _

How cold my whole life is, hated by my own blood, unloved by my family.

Such a strange thing to be King, never alone, _always lonely._

Richelieu's dark glare never leaves my own, and he looks like a marble statue draped in silk, a grim tribute to my own mistakes.

When he had left me with the liberty to punish or ignore the crimes of Gaston and Chalais' aborted plot in Fleury, I only ordered d'Ornano to be locked up in the Bastille. From his privileged position as Gaston’s preceptor, the old renegade had spent most of his life pouring oil on my brother's jealousy and was probably responsible for far too much damage than his life was worth. 

I knew Richelieu was expecting execution or jail for at least Chalais and a few of Gaston's suite, but I thought d'Ornano's disgrace was enough for the lesson to be learned. Chalais is an idiot, too bloody stupid to see any of his plots succeed, and Gaston, for God's sake, is my _brother_.

But of course, I realize it only gave Chalais a sense of invincibility, and he didn’t wait before he ran to my brother again to vomit hatred and lies. Not even for his own purpose, no, this donkey is far too dumb to have any, but pushed forward by Rohan no doubt. Her will to see Richelieu dead is a surprise to no one, while Gaston, hungry for the throne with every inch of his skin, never needs much of a push.

And now, as if hurting _my Minister _wasn't hurting France enough, they need to kill _me_ too?

What do I have to do, dear God, what do I have to do to deserve a scrap of their affection?

Gaston, the cherished son. Mother, ignoring me.

_Never alone, always lonely. _

“How much of it does the Queen know?” I ask Louvigny with a voice I wished much steadier.

“Marie de Rohan, to my astonished terror,” the good Count babbles, “implied that Her Majesty the Queen knows almost all. She didn't tell, though, if she actually consents to this horror.”

_Of course, the Spanish witch too. _

I close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out. _Focus. _

I open them again, only to be slapped in the face by Richelieu's frozen stare.

“I told you so”, his thin lips say without a word, Hell, lower those eyes, you cunning beast, I am your King and my decisions are untainted, don't you dare look at me like that, know your place.

_Know your place._

”Where is Chalais now?” I croak.

“He is restrained in his own rooms under heavy guard until further notice” Richelieu speaks, tense and defiant.

I know I am supposed to order a sentence, but if I ask for Chalais' head now, I'll admit only that I was wrong. If I release him, though, he will no doubt try again. Richelieu reads my inner turmoil like an open book, and yet he doesn't even twitch, haughty and proud, waiting for me to see reason _\- as if I owed it to him_. Louvigny keeps staring at his boots, his hat shaking in his hands, while Richelieu and I duel in silence.

It lasts for a minute, while his frozen grip on Louvigny slowly unclenches, and he joins his hands on his stomach again, waiting, expecting, _oh, lower those eyes, or I swear I'll - _

“Lock him up in the Bastille.” I sigh. “I don't want to see his face again.”

I read an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in those red bastard's eyes, and I want his _pain_ for that.

“When is the execution to be scheduled?” He asks, so confident, so self-assured he's unbearable to watch.

“I said '_lock him up_'.” I spit out. “I didn't say execute him.”

His eyes harden and God, _did he dare to **growl** at me?_

“Your Majesty is surely aware this is not nearly enough.” He states, and my hands curl into fists before I realise it.

“I beg your pardon, _Cardinal_?” I snarl, giving him one last chance to look down and leave.

“Your Majesty, an example has to be made, or your authority will be questioned.”

Headstrong beast, how dare you?

_I am your King, lower those eyes. _

“I have made my decision, Richelieu.” I hiss, marching towards him. “You have your orders.”

He doesn't move, standing proud, madness glowing in his eyes, vibrant with that resolve I hate just as much as I need.

“Your Majesty cannot let this pass unpunished.” He goes on, reckless. “This man has proven _twice _to be a traitor to France.”

_“Cardinal, that is **enough**.” _

I am standing three inches from him now, and still, he refuses to step back. God, if that man had a sword, he looks ready to draw it. He's trembling with repressed wrath, darkness creeping on his face, and if his breathing loses its rhythm, he still looks unstoppable.

He heard the warning, he knows me well enough. He knows what's coming, and he defies me still. This lunatic knows no limits. Well, I'll remind him of them if he doesn't behave.

I shift one inch closer, challenging him, don't you dare speak one more word, tainted priest, filthy snake, step back, look down, _don't you dare open your mouth-_

“I won't let Your Majesty so _uselessly _put himself in danger.”

_Bloody hell. _

“Louvigny, leave us,” I growl.

The good man almost whimpers in relief, running to the doors as if the room was on fire.

The gates slam shut and silence falls, only disturbed by the beast’s hitching breaths. It is because of this laboured, painful breathing that I grant him one more escape route, though I feel my whole body tense with rage to the point of soreness.

“Richelieu, Chalais is nothing but a child. _Anyone_ could see he’s just too stupid to-“

“You are _not_ anyone. You are the King, therefore you are the State, and you cannot indulge yourself the _luxury_ of a commoner’s sentim- ”

**_Clack!_ **

His body hits the floorboards before I understand how hard I just slapped him.

I grab him by the lapels of his coat, haul him up and throw him back to the floor before I realise his face is bleeding.

His head bangs against my shelf with a sinister thud, and he slumps on the parquet with a sharp cry of pain. Insane with fury, I stride to him. Someone is rumbling insults, is that _my voice?_

And then, finally, dizzy and panting, blood slowly dripping from his split lip, the Red Beast _breaks_.

He lets out a low, frightened whine, and his blurred eyes fill up with tears. He tries to crawl sideways towards the door. I step on his cloak next to his throat. He freezes. His eyes close tight, and he curls around himself, without a sound except for those soft weeping cries.

I watch scarlet drops of blood fall from his mouth, soiling the white lining of his cloak for far too long before I notice I am alight again.

_The fire has returned. _

It’s in my chest, it’s in my veins, it’s fierce and raging, it’s _everywhere_. I hear my own heart pulsing in my ears, I hear my own breath shortened and shaken.

The Beast is at my feet.

The world falls into place.

I feel glorious, I feel righteous. I feel _kingly, at last._

I listen to his cries, my eyes almost closed, and no matter how long I pray, no matter the pilgrimages, the mortifications, the fasting, there is no running away from that _sigh_ I'm letting out.

There is no hiding from the raging flames within my skin.

I slowly lean down, grab him under the arm, and lift him up again. He doesn’t resist me, and even if he was to, he weighs nothing. He can’t stand upright; his legs are shuddering. So I let him lean back against the shelf. Out of breath, wheezing and terrified, he blindly tries to slide out of my reach.

I bang my hands against the wooden furniture on both sides of his face. He whimpers, raising his own trembling hands between our bodies, bracing himself for another blow no doubt. The blow doesn’t come.

_It may never come._

After a while, his eyes carefully open up, and he turns his tear-soaked face towards me.

He notices, I am sure, my famished stare upon that drop of thick red blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

He notices I am sure. His breathing slowly calms down.

He hears, just as I do, the low moaning in my breath, he feels, just as I do, the wildfire under my skin.

Gently, then, his crying ends, and after a few moments spent floating in the air caught between our hearts, his hands gingerly graze the front of my shirt. He gasps at the touch as if I burned, and maybe I do. He gasps, hiding his darkening eyes under a veil of long eyelashes, and as a peace offering, he tilts his head the slightest bit to the side.

He yields.

_He knows. _

Before I do, he knows. He always has, he always will.

_Clever beast he is. _

I lean over and wipe off that drop of blood with my tongue. The fire howls, the fire screeches.

The taste of him, my whole life, _my own death._

His moan echoes in my mouth before I understand how hard I am kissing him. My hands are lost in his hair, my body pressed against his own, and God, how high I burn. I cannot breathe, I cannot think, there is only copper on his tongue, the delicate touch of his hands, and the soft, slick heat of his lips.

The fire, Hell itself, roaring in my heart.

My whole life, my own death.

He drew my dreams upon a map of Europe.

With his gentle, _slender hands_.

I ravish his mouth, devour it, worship it, and his hands eventually come to grip my shirt as only a drowning man would. It lasts for a lifetime, my tongue exploring in blind hunger, his lips docile, welcoming. His hair is the smoothest silver ever woven, his blood and tears the highest tribute I've ever been paid but, at some point, we both need to breathe, and I am forced to pull apart, breathless, staggered.

He looks hazy, almost swaying to one side, but his wide eyes dive into mine with the deepest adoration I've ever seen. Not in my own bloodline, not in any courtier or soldier, not even on those holy paintings my Cathedrals are filled with, not once, not ever, I have seen such limitless, ardent devotion.

_“There is not a soul in this whole Kingdom who loves you more than this man does, nor will there ever be.”_

Damned monk.

One of my hands unwillingly abandons his hair so I can let my thumb brush his wounded lip. I don't apologise. He doesn't want me to. He gives out the quickest of smiles, and quietly, _purposefully_ looks down, lowering his head in such a delicate surrender that I almost cry out in pleasure.

God, I want him.

He knows. He always had. _He always will. _

I feel dizzy, sick with feeling, lost and delighted.

Despite my beating heart, my burning skin, my twisted guts, my blurred eyes, I feel at peace, I feel complete. My fears, my worries, my pain, my loneliness, all of them drowned in the waves of his hair. My uncertainties and doubts and the burdens of my duty, all vanished within the curve of his eyelashes.

No matter how I pray, no matter how I run. No matter how I beg, in any Church that I could find.

There is no lying to myself. God has put too much of what I need into one man.

Richelieu - 

_ \- Armand. _

_Armand_, my mind corrects itself, and I gasp at how _alien_ this name sounds.

But it's true, after all. His name is Armand.

It's a beautiful name.

He's a beautiful man.

_Oh, Lord, I am **damned**. _

What have I done, dear God, what have I done? Was it too much to ask to be loved by my wife, by my mother? Was it too capricious to wish for purer things?

Lord, what are you punishing me for?

_Why did you force this sin into me?_

Caught once more in a nausea of shame, I grab his hands and tear them off my shirt. I avert my eyes, and though my mind, repulsed and terrified, is determined to chase him away, my corrupt skin refuses to let go of his warmth. That lingering sense of peace in my heart keeps calling for his touch, and the willing submission in his eyes.

_You're only ripping off a part of your very soul_, the fire whispers, but I refuse to sink that low.

“Get out,” I mutter, so weakly I feel sick of myself.

He doesn't protest. He just takes one of my hands, brings it to his lips and kisses it twice, sending a raw spark of wildfire straight to my guts again.

What wrong could I have done, tell me, God above, to find the love I craved all my life into the eyes of that soiled priest?

I shake my head, overwrought, and take one step back, breaking the spell, shivering in the cold void the loss of his body leaves me in.

“_Get out_.” I hiss, my jaw clenched tight upon the 'please' I almost let slip.

Quietly, not once looking up, he shifts away, his steps to the door sounding almost steady.

I stand there, my eyes fixed upon the covers of my bed, unable to move, prisoner of the war inside my heart. I barely manage to breathe, just as I hear him open the door, “Schedule Chalais' execution for next Sunday.”

He doesn't say anything; I just hear the soft sound of the door clicking shut.

Left alone, I stumble forward to lean my forehead against the spot he just has been, my sinful hands blindly searching for some warmth he might have left. Never in my whole life have I felt my skin _howl_ for anyone.

I might have heard plays and poems and songs, I might even have written ballets or rhymes about it, but how cruel is the certitude that not for one day I really knew what it felt like.

Until now.

_Until now. _

My whole life, my own death.

_His name is Armand. _


	8. December 16th 1626, The Royal Gardens, The Louvre, Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning : blood, mental illness

I know when the news is bad. He doesn't have to explain, he doesn't even have to speak.

I know by the way his hands clench around each other, I know by the way he straightens his back as he walks.

I know every _twitch_ of him by now.

I stop in my walk through the rose bushes around the fountain of Saint Louis. Whenever staying in this Palace of Nightmares an hour more would drive me mad, I insist on taking a walk. The gardens are asleep at this time of the year, the high trees naked and shivering, frost crawling up the sandstone statues, but I have a strange affection for the dormant peacefulness of winter. Nature is in reprieve. Beauty in waiting. There's a particular glow to that timid December sun, lenient to the eyes, soothing for the soul.

Behind me, Anne, Mother and a few servants freeze just the same, whimpering in the cold, clutching their ridiculously unpractical capes around their shoulders. Well, they insisted upon accompanying me. Their mistake.

Far away in the light grey air, the bells of Notre Dame sing mid-day, answered by the distant echo of Saint Eustache. I am still holding Huaut's report upon the construction of Versailles in my hand and, truly, this was about to be a good day.

Until that tall red silhouette started walking towards us.

Richelieu is back from the Tuileries, news from the Assembly is bad, if not awful, and though I wince at the incoming trouble, I take selfish pleasure in the fact that he now makes a straight line from the Palace gates to me, not sparing a glance for anyone else, including _Mother_.

He stops two respectful yards away from me, bows flawlessly, and waits, flinching in the cold, the treacherous wind ruffling his silver hair. He waits for me to inspect his eyes, watch the storms rumbling there, read the threat beyond the seawall, and drag him somewhere where we can be alone.

This is it.

This is how he asks for an audience now.

_This is both of us, and the ballet we dance. _

There have been sombre days.

The aftermath of Chalais' second attempt to kill Richelieu has been dreadful. I had to drag my own brother in front of me in the throne room for trial- to make him kneel and answer for his crimes. I had to watch the ghosts of our childhood in his eyes, the cherished son, the loved child. Mother begged for him, cried for him, _of course_, and in her words, how cruel she tried to make me look.

Gaston apologised in a low voice, blaming Chalais for everything, promising to behave, pledging loyalty. Knowing I couldn’t trust a single word he said hurt like a bullet in the guts, but truly, I couldn't execute my own blood. Nor could I exile him. I had done this before; exile is nothing but letting my enemies freely influence my own kin. No matter what burned inside his heart, Gaston was better here where I could keep an eye on him.

I let him go with a long, aggressive warning speech I prepared myself. By the end of it, Gaston was staring at me in awe and thankfulness.

“Louis le Juste”, he called me as he stepped back, bowing down.

I shouldn't have smiled, I know.

I read it in Richelieu's dark eyes.

Machiavelli wanted everyone dead or exiled. Machiavelli relentlessly pleaded for the slaughter of my enemies in the name of his beloved Reason of State, the very soil he had planted all his work into. The Reason of State had no heart, no blood, no soul. It only had a purpose. A final goal, a _meaning. _

All of it scribbled on his map of Europe.

The Crown of France had to become the greatest power in Europe, feared and respected in each and every city of the continent, and to achieve that dream, no life, no name, no treasure or threat could be of any importance.

“Many a virtuous thing for a commoner would only ruin a man of State,” he once said, pushing the exile letter of d'Epernon under my quill.

I signed.

But as he had the _nerve _to ask the same of me for Gaston, I unleashed Hell at his face until he took three steps back, trembling. The bastard still pleaded for example, for authority, but as I hissed and cursed, he eventually surrendered, averting his eyes and nodding weakly.

I think I touched his cheek. I think he kissed my hand.

He asked for Gaston's official trial in the Throne room the very same _minute_, and we went back to fighting.

This is it.

This is how we make decisions now.

_This is both of us, and the ballet we dance. _

He still had me stand and watch Chalais' execution, the only one he squeezed out of me. Indeed, as I kept delaying my signature to D'Ornano's death sentence, he gently informed me one fine morning that the old man had died of consumption in his cell at the Bastille. “_How convenient_” I sneered, but he only raised his chin and narrowed his eyes.

He made me travel all the way to Nantes, because Chalais had too many friends in Paris, to watch the young Count's head _butchered _by the clumsiest, lousiest executioner I ever saw.

From the House of Bailiffs' first floor, I could witness the anger of all Nantes. The crowd usually yells when the beheading requires more than five blows, and this time, after _fifteen_, the people were outraged, and I was positively _sick_.

“In God's name, Cardinal, what is happening?” I hissed, nauseated.

Richelieu was standing tall on my right, a bit pale, maybe, but quiet and unmoving, his eyes stoically watching the gruesome spectacle of an artless sobbing man trying to cut a squirming neck.

“It seems a few of Chalais' friends have followed us here,” he carefully explained, “and had the town executioner kidnapped yesterday morning in a desperate attempt to spare him the final torture.”

I turned my head back to the disgusting mess the Place du Bouffay was, Chalais' spasming body sending spurts of thick blood up to the inept man's face as he weakly hit it for the _twentieth time,_ the crowd booing and jeering like wolves under a full moon.

“Who on Earth is this, then?” I growled, pointing at the hangman.

“An inmate, Your Majesty.” Richelieu's restrained voice let out. “The one who accepted to take over the executioner's burden in exchange for the promise of an early release.”

All I could do was gape as I watched, revolted, the awkward slaughter come to an end after more than twenty-five hopeless hits. The crowd fell silent afterwards, only a few prayers rising in the air, along with the sounds of my short sickened breaths.

“Those we left alive will hate us twice as much after this,” I remember gasping at some point.

“They'll hate _me_, not you.” He nodded, toneless. “Besides, they'll also fear the State, knowing there is no escaping the consequences of any kind of disruption. This is all that matters.”

With that, upon a last glance for the dreadful pool of blood the gallows had become as three men were busy trying to free the executioner’s sword from the shocked inmate's hands, he turned his back and ordered my carriage to be prepared.

I was reminded again, as he peacefully made arrangements for our return to Paris, of exactly how far he was ready to go for the dreams we have. For our vision of the future.

For France.

_For me._

There have been sweeter days.

As he came to me one warm August morning, so impatient to deliver good news that he refused to wait until I came back from a hunt in Versailles, and hopped in my carriage uninvited with his documents under his arms.

I had almost him kicked out, but he looked up at me with those glowing embers of anthracite, a smile of raw delight and steel resolve on his lively face. I laughed. He clapped the door shut and laid his reports on my lap.

His cunning plan to make Valteline French again had worked. He had sent a willingly ambiguous letter to the Pope, never once officially threatening, but filled with so many disdainful undertones that it would inescapably be interpreted as a threat by the hot-blooded, warlike Urbain.

It didn't miss. The Vatican forces had two French emissaries killed in the next week in Valteline, allowing Richelieu to claim an unjustified attack, as his letter could never prove to be a declaration of war. Together we designed and sent three battalions that cut through their strongholds as through fresh butter. We forced Urbain to sign a treaty blocking all ways for Spain to join their territories of the North and South by any other way than a bloody long way around.

One of France’s most glorious marches.

To the fury of the Vatican, resulting in all kinds of vile publications from many Jesuit figures, Richelieu once more answered with his own efficient propaganda.

The clever beast selected the angriest essays and pamphlets among the ones he could clearly link to the Jesuits and unleashed his own Gazettes at them. They all claimed the Crown was being vilified by fanatics, but they always carefully kept the frontier behind the Jesuits and the Vatican blurred. The people screamed outrage. Jesuits were imprisoned all around the Kingdom.

As Richelieu asked the Vatican to disapprove and ban those scandalous essays officially, he made sure the Pope believed he was only turning his back on a few Jesuit fanatics. His Holiness accepted.

As Richelieu passed a law to ensure no religious authority could ever interfere in Crown business, this wasn't about Jesuits anymore. It had never been, but Urbain felt trapped enough to let it pass without a grunt.

There he was, that brilliant creature, announcing to me in a moving carriage on the bumpy road from Paris to Versailles that France was officially out of any kind of papal authority forevermore, thus joyfully breaking centuries of tradition.

“Now, with these Royal Decrees I prepared,” He exulted, sitting next to me on the wobbling bench, his slender fingers underlining paragraphs of the documents on my lap, “All decisions concerning the future of France will be, as they should, made by His Majesty alone without pressure or influence.”

“_You._” I breathed, staring at the paper, dizzy with realisation. “You, a Roman Catholic Cardinal...”

“I am the First Minister of France” he cut in, resolute. “What I serve with every breath I take is the_ Reason_ of State. Reason, not religion.”

I slowly turned my face to him, then. I had come to look for that fire in his eyes quite often those days, I must admit, because it warmed me up more than any hearth could ever do. I didn't need warmth, truly, under that fierce summer sun, but I fed on his flames all the same. I took in the sight of him, his breath shortened by frenzy, his lithe body radiating energy like a wild cat in a chase and for a second, maddened by the thrill of victory, _I forgot about sin. _

His wide eyes seemed to slide from my head to my lap in a swift, elegant line, and he gently lowered his head, bowing down imperceptibly, whispering in a tamed, pliant voice,

“On this Earth, I have only one master.”

My dreams upon his map, made closer to my reach, every year, every day. All of this by his deft, slender hands.

_Armand. _

I grabbed his face, my mouth was on his in a heartbeat, and _we burned_.

We burned, like powder and spark, and as his hand gripped my thigh for support, the touch drove me _mad_. A sharp jolt of the carriage made his fingers shift higher, and my throat clenched around the _need_ I was caught in. I needed him, every inch of him, everything of him, and for the first time, I think, I searched for an opening in those thick red robes.

I stroked down his slender chest, feeling the small buttons there, and another bump of the road forced my lips to slide towards his throat. He cried out, soft and delicate, the sound alone burning my mind blank, leaving me alone with my furious desire.

But as I fumbled with the buttons I opened the eyes I forgot I ever closed, and I had a glance for what I was doing.

I realised I was undoing silk robes of that unique shade of carmine.

They call it_ Cardinal red. _

“Oh, **_God_.**” I gasped.

My hands jumped off him as if he was poisonous, and I inched away from his warmth once more. He whimpered at first, crumbling forward a little, his fingertips grazing that inch of skin on his neck I had been kissing.

Eventually, he sat up straight, discretely wiping his lips dry with his thumb, and straightened his robes in three sharp moves. He didn't look at me once, keeping his eyes on the floor and his mouth shut, but he seemed like he was about to break into tears.

Silence fell between us, painful and uneasy, and while he bit his thumb to blood again to keep himself from breaking down, I just sat there panting.

I tried to breathe, waiting for my heart to calm down, trying to put a name on the hurricane of thoughts in my mind.

What reward had God in mind, as he gave me that man, so eager to serve, so brilliant of mind?

What punishment was in his plan, as he also gave me that forbidden, sinful _fire _inside?

What had I done, what good, what wrong?

  
The key to all future glories in those wide, clever eyes.

The means to all victorious ends, in those deft slender hands.

Sighing, I pulled from the carriage door a small drawer with paper, quill and ink, always ready if I need to work while travelling. Carefully stacking his decrees upon it, I laid down my signature on each of them and pulled back the drawer.

History was written.

Dreams getting closer.

  


  
I watched him torturing his thumb as he looked by the window for a while, and I flinched at the sight of blood upon his hand and lips.

To pull him out of his self-abuse, because this one time I think I was more stunned than angry, I handed him the signed papers and whispered in the most soothing voice I could find.

“You have been of good service, Cardinal. Make this law known to every city of France, and prepare the Edits we talked about last month. I will summon the Assembly in Paris. France is ready for the next step.”

He turned to me, searching my eyes for my usual rage. As he found none, he offered a relieved smile and cautiously wiped his damaged hand on his robes before he took the Decrees from me.

This is it.

This is how we rule the country now.

_This is both of us, and the ballet we dance. _

He stands before me, the sly winds of December making a mess of his hair, and I could watch those bright hues of silver dance for a whole hour, I truly could. I'm not sure I want to hear that news anyway.

But that _lunatic_ went out without a coat, his eyes are lost in the beginning of a breakdown, and he looks dreadful. The storm beyond the seawall is already howling, the mighty waves getting close. This is going to be ugly, and it better not happen here.

I sigh, roll my eyes, and dismiss Mother and Anne with a short smile thrown over my shoulder.

“If you'll excuse me.” I let out.

With that, I stride towards the Palace. I don't even have to check if he follows me. The sound of those robes on the thin gravel of the garden’s alleys can never be mistaken. Not by me.

_Not anymore._

My apartments are too far. He's already shaking, he won't hold that long. I _sense_ his walls breaking, even from five yards ahead, so I choose the small chapel on the first floor instead. It has the advantage of being easily locked and having thick ancient walls. It will be deserted until vespers. Good.

I open the door, step in, and nod at him to follow me.

He walks past me, head down, and the sheer tension in his shoulders tells me I've been wise. I push the thick door closed, and shoot the century-old bolt to lock us in.

I turn towards him, frowning.

The high stained glass windows bless us with warm yellow light, the altar of cherry wood and gold gloriously framing his slender figure as he paces in circles. Above him, carved in the most delicate Italian marbles, Mary is looking down at his anguish with gentle concern.

It never struck me, until now, how he naturally fits in holy places, the red silk hissing in hushed tones upon the tiled floor. Even in despair, even as insanity is creeping back up his spine with frightening speed, his elegance doesn't fade, and I don't think I've seen such grace anywhere other than holy paintings. He could be starting a sermon, I would sit and listen. He could be promising God's grace upon us all, I would smile and believe.

This is the witchcraft of him, after all.

His hands are soaked in blood, his eyes relentless, his mind filled with schemes and secrets.

And yet, there's breath-taking truth in him. There is faith in those visions he worships more than he prays God. There is sincerity in his pain when his emotions, good or bad, spiral up and down, swelled by his sickness until they're_ eating him alive. _

There is in Richelieu much less deceit than anyone would think.

His eyes struggle to keep their focus, and his fingers twitch horribly. I heard madness runs through his family. I heard the rumours, his brother, his sister, and I am reminded, once more, of the sheer power that man must have in him, to build his seawall against that storm, again and again, while achieving such straining, gigantic work. 

A snake, a beast, no doubt, but all in all, _a remarkable man._

“What is it, Cardinal?” I gently ask.

He doesn't stop pacing. I don't think he can. He just mutters between clenched teeth, rubbing his hands together in front of his mouth.

“The Assembly has rejected the financial plan. Every scrap of it. _Everything_.”

_Oh, bloody hell. _

I have a helpless look for Mary above us and sink upon a chair with my face in my hands. I knew the news was bad. _Curse them all. _

After our victory in the Valteline war, and France's release from the Vatican's grip, the Cardinal and I thought it was time to step up to the next part of our plans.

A reform. No, more than that.

A _revolution_.

Everything was ready; the people were chanting the glories of the King, France felt united as never before, my authority and status were at their peaks.

The time was right, I was sure of it, to tame the Grands once and for all.

My father’s strategy to keep the Dukes and Lords in check was to bribe them into it, and God, are those bastards greedy. Richelieu estimated the fraction of the Royal Treasury used to fatten them into obedience had climbed to a fifth of the annual income. This was madness. This was ruin.

We could not afford that nonsense anymore.

So the Cardinal suggested three Edicts. One would restrain the Grands' ability to make trades for their own benefit, thus reducing their wealth and possessions. The second would forbid duels in the whole country without exception so that justice couldn't be made by any other power than mine. The third and harshest law ordered the destruction of all strongholds and castles that weren't directly useful for the defence of our frontiers.

Deprived of their money, their traditions and prestige, the Grands would have no choice than to turn to the Louvre and accept the dawning of a national State.

He had laid down nothing more than my exact thoughts on paper once again, and I signed those Edicts with a thrill of supremacy and pride that no war, no battlefield ever gave me before.

All was left to do to see those laws applied to every acre of the Kingdom was to have them voted and acknowledged by France herself.

I summoned the Assembly of Notables and charged Richelieu with the burden of making those Edicts forever unbreakable.

And truly, once more, the clever beast _outsmarted himself._

He made the Assembly sessions as short as possible, never giving them a second to think. He started each and every one of them by a terrifying depiction of the chaos the country was in, and how the King of divine right demanded of them quick and efficient decisions.

  
He blended the Edicts into an ocean of smaller, meaningless decisions that would be easier to swallow, like the forbidding of industrial monopoly, the suppressing of the Constable positions.

He claimed the destruction of strongholds was only aimed against the Huguenots, for the glory of a united France under the patronage of the Virgin Mary. In exchange for their efforts, he promised a reduction of death sentences, an army, a float. To sweeten the whole thing, he kept praising each and every City of France for their skills and products, their traditions, their energy, their virtues or loyalty.

Taking turns with his long-time friend La Valette, he cajoled and harassed them to compliance day after day. After weeks of insanely hard work, bloodless and exhausted, crippled by headaches and his torturous fevers, he told me the Assembly was finally ready to vote the reform.

Every single proposition was being accepted without argument; all we needed to do was make them swallow the method we had in mind to finance our promises.

Richelieu proposed a general income tax, taking a percentage of any annual income of every French family, regardless of rank, nobility or position. It was aimed at everyone, except the Clergy.

I had my doubts, but the only alternative was one more tax for commoners only, and we were resolute about not doing that. The people of France, no matter how fierce, were already bled dry, and couldn't bear one more tax without a riot.

We had to take the money where it laid. In the nobility's thick iron trunks.

The Red Beast and I argued for a whole night, but deep inside, I knew he was right.

In the morning, I signed.

The _smile_ he had for me then. Warm. Fierce. Unstoppable.

I realized, by the proud and comfortable nod I instinctively gave back, that for three long years after his first Council, the Red Beast of the Louvre had been laying down his life to earn my trust, fighting for it with every hard day's work, every sleepless night, and that he might be finally succeeding. 

I knew, by the way he clasped my hand, that the sole purpose of this man was laid bare on a map of Europe somewhere in his study, and that this feeling of safety growing inside me perhaps wasn't meant to shatter in pieces someday, after all.

But of course, _of course. _

France can accept any reform I can think of, but no one ever wants to _pay for it. _

I rub my forehead for a while, listening to the sound of his robes circling around the chapel. There's no point thinking about alternatives. We have already tried, time and time again, and there is only one.

“We could delay the decision.” I muse, unconvinced. “Wear them down until they -”

“_No!_” He snarls, and I jump.

I instinctively growl at his insolence, but I don't go further, because I know it's just his anguish speaking. God, the state of him is_ pitiful. _

He's not even looking at me; his eyes are lost on the floor, glimmering with agony, Hell, he's been having those headaches for weeks now, how is he still standing? His whole face is tense with anxiety, and he clenches his hands around the sea storm in his chest. The seawall is breaking.

Mighty waves are getting close.

“We cannot risk giving them time.” He goes on, for me, for Mary or for himself, I have no idea. “They'll only go back on everything they already accepted. We need to save the Edicts, or everything has been for nought.”

I nod. I know.

We both know there's only one thing left to be done.

“You need to propose the Provincial tax system,” I state.

“Knowing every province will make the same choice of turning against the local folk.” he hisses, biting his lips in bitterness.

“Yes.”

“This is **_not_** what we wanted!” He shouts, banging his fist on the altar, hard enough to break bone.

He barely flinches, spins around and starts pacing again. His hand is bleeding, oh Heavens, this man is _raving mad_. Something has to be done, or that idiot is going to break himself in two.

I stand up and walk towards him. He doesn't even notice. His breath is ragged and laborious, his eyes blurred and wild, and if he doesn't sit down, he'll just pass out.

The seawall is broken.

The storm is rushing in.

Hear the tempest, _hear the whirlwind. _

Dear God, could _I_ face this every day and keep standing?

I'm not sure.

A snake, a beast, no doubt, but all in all, _a remarkable man._

“Cardinal, calm yourself,” I grumble, but I'm not sure he even heard me.

“Will this be my legacy?” He cries, distressed, clasping his injured hand against his chest. “Crushing the people of France under inhuman taxes? Will this be how I’m remembered? Don't they hate me enough? I can bear half of the Louvre wanting me dead, but them... _but them_...”

He freezes in his tracks, eyes unseeing, swaying lightly. Blood trickles from between his fingers, and all we hear for an awful minute is the gentle dripping sound of blood drops falling on the chapel floor.

“Who will cry for me?” He breathes, feverish, delirious. “I have sinned so much. They'll dance on my grave, they'll spit on my name. There's still so much to be done, though, so much...”

His breath starts wheezing again, and his eyes dart to the sides, following nightmares only he can see. I wonder for a while what exactly is the most dangerous of that man's enemies, between the foes outside, and the sickness within. Who exactly will win the race and take away his life first, between their swords and his own madness?

His speech gradually loses all sense, and he ends up blurting out unrelated words. I huff an exasperated sigh, Heavens,_ stop torturing yourself. _I walk closer to him, tilt my head to the side to search for his eyes, but he doesn't see anything. His lips are turning blue, and a physician should see to his hand.

His every emotion, good or bad, eating him raw.

_Eating him raw. _

“For God's sake, sit down, Cardinal, you're exhausted.” I gently ask, offering my hand.

But his scattered muttering only rises one tone higher, and he looks like he wants to step away from me, _oh,_ _enough now! _

I grab his face, force him to look at me, and shout.

“**_Armand!_**_”_

We both gasp at the natural yet foreign sound.

_What did I say? Oh, Hell. _

I bite my lips on my shame and confusion, but his eyes slowly focus on mine, that's a good start. He seems to realise who I am and, panicked, presses his hands to his mouth, splattering blood on his face and showing the torn skin around his knuckles, frail bones visible.

I think he tries to apologise, but I can only hear muffled sounds.

I intended to push him towards a chair, but it seems I'm out of time. His eyes are already rolling back, his knees buckling.

When he collapses against me, I gather him into my arms and slowly ease his fall to the floor. I grunt at the thick stains of blood on my doublet, but all in all, I’m almost _relieved_.

I'll call the physicians.

I'll let him sleep the madness off.

I'll let him build his wall again.

  
While he recovers, I'll order La Valette to make the Assembly vote the provincial tax, and the reform will be saved. When he is strong enough to pass my door again, I’ll tell him France is a national State.

He'll whine about the people hating him for a while, of course, but eventually, he'll see our dreams are one step closer, and he'll just move on to the next task.

With every hard day's work.

With every sleepless night.

A Red Beast in the Louvre, no doubt, but after all, _my Red Beast of the Louvre. _

“Don’t you dare worry about those who could hate you for this,” I speak into his unmoving hair. “Don't you dare worry about any opinion other than mine.”

As he whimpers in his unconsciousness, I feel the strange need to hold him tighter against my chest, and looking at Mary up above, repeat that last word again for Heavens to witness.

“_Mine._”


	9. June 1st 1627, The Queen's apartments, The Louvre, Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning : forced/duty sex (aka more sad smut)

As I step into the hot, thick air of Queen Anne's boudoir with mud still glued on my boots and walking stick in my hand, both her and Mother start and hastily stand up from the tea table. They pat their dresses with subtle coughs, bowing down in stiff embarrassed moves.

Oh, I see. Backbiting again, were we?

Was it me, or Richelieu this time?

I take a narrowed look at Mother. She is still purple with anger, her multiple chins trembling with rage, her podgy hands squeezing her fan as she agitates it in front of her nose.

_Ah. Richelieu, then. _

Feeling _neglected_, Mother?

I suppress a smirk with the greatest effort.

As his duty as my First Minister took everything he had to give, it seems_ Mother's creature_ steadily freed himself from her smothering grip. The Louvre's rumours have been delightful to hear those last months, as the Queen Mother has apparently continued shouting at him every other day as always, but only to see him shouting back more and more.

I heard the valets and maids chuckle about her commands being ignored, her letters being sent back, and her usual emotional blackmail gradually losing all impact. The dashing, skilful lute player doesn't seem to visit her any more, too busy carving the country to my own desires.

In her dull, frustrated stare, I know I should read bad omens. In her angry, tight pursed mouth, I should see danger. She is a Medici, she was born in a bed of intrigue, and she has far too much time to think.

But right now, I am relieved from her disgusting hungry stare sliding upon him, and saved from the tales of her pinning him down on her bedroom rug.

Watch him leave you, _Mother_, watch him forget your very name.

Watch him walk towards me in confidence_,_ asking for an audience with nothing more than a look. Now his words are meant for my ears alone; his writing delivered straight to my desk.

  
I get his hard day's work, I get his sleepless nights.

I get those gentle smiles you never got a glimpse of.

He cares for no one else's opinion than mine.

_Mine. _

I swipe a bitter look up and down her fat figure, squeezed already in her last-year dress. Her arms don’t even have a twitch towards me, and her looks for my face are made of nothing sweeter than wariness and disdain.

No, she'll never love me. I could execute everyone she lays her eyes upon, she'd still find a way to give her affection to someone else. I'll live and die without her care.

The strange King I've come to be. Never alone, always lonely.

Hated by my own family.

I straighten my back, and instead of talking, I simply stare in her eyes, banging my walking stick on the parqueted floor. She understands I want her gone, and bows her head with poorly faked sadness.

“Ah.” She breathes. “Very well. I'll leave you two to your intimacy, shall I?”

And she makes her way out, granting us the pathetic show of pulling out a huge lace handkerchief to pat the contour of her eyes as she reels past me. I roll my eyes, _God above, I am living in the cheapest play ever written. _

The door slams shut behind the warship her bottom looks like, and I am left alone with the Spanish witch as if this could be any better.

She does me the favour of sparing me the usual salutations and gestures to a small ivory box on her dressing table instead.

“Your birthday gift to me is of the most delicate taste, Monsieur.” She compliments me, her voice affable, and her hands noncommittal.

I give her a short bow. I won’t insult her with pretending I chose it myself. Baradas suggested the silversmith, and I simply asked the craftsman to do the best he could for the price Richelieu had deemed reasonable. This is not my gift; this is the gift of Protocol. Everything between us is made of Protocol. Even this visit.

“The physicians told me you had completely recovered from your… misfortune.” I let out, dull as a linen sheet.

“Indeed I have, Monsieur.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

I look down at the feet of her pretty mahogany tea table, shaped like the feet of a lion. I know what’s coming, and I hate it, maybe, as much as she does.

But I am here for duty; I am here for my Kingdom.

She lost the child she was with five weeks ago. My hopes of finally putting an end to Gaston’s plots to get the throne died in a mush of dark blood spilt in her bed sheets. A chance at the future of France spoiled because that idiotic witch found it amusing to run around the Palace with that wicked Chevreuse until she fell on hard tiled floor.

Boiling with anger, sick with contempt, I still had to walk the walk as soon as the physicians told me it was physically possible once more, and visit her every day _all over again_.

Oh, God, what’s the point? That Spanish mare will never give me a son. For all I know she’d strangle him in his sleep if she ever does, and wait for me to die so she can marry Gaston and give France to Spain with a silk _ribbon _around it.

God, I wish I could hunt something.

I have a longing look for the gardens outside. My plane trees have blossomed quite superbly, blessing the eyes with sparkling hues of light green. She could enjoy their unique, refreshing fragrance if she could be bothered to open those windows once a year.

“Will you join me in the bedroom for a drink, Monsieur?” she timidly asks, and I turn back to her in a start.

“With pleasure, Madame.”

She bows, and leads me to the door on her left, pushing it ajar to let me in.

Her bedroom is dark, even in the middle of this lovely afternoon, and the air is just as stifling as anywhere else in her apartments. Though her room is almost as large as mine, I feel the walls shrink close around me, and I watch her blue silk wallpaper with doubt and resentment. I take some time, as always, to adjust to this unbearable slick warmth as I walk in, and hide that flinch of disgust on my face before I turn around, shrugging off my coat.

She still serves me wine, because she tends to cling to such details, and I gulp down two glasses, watching her as she undresses with no more willingness than she'd have for her physicians.

She screamed in pain; I sobbed in shame.

_No, don't think of that again, it was thirteen years ago for God’s sake._

Do your duty. Breathe in, breathe out, focus.

I slowly pull off the rest of my clothes, laying them down carefully folded on the same chair as every other day, every other time.

She slides into her bed without a word. _God, what’s the point?_

Remember the hunt.

  
I follow her, smiling distractedly at her dreary praising of my looks, oh stop it, woman, I haven’t changed a bit in ten years. I kiss her lips, trying to forget the horrid taste of powder and cream, and cup her breasts a bit more gently than usual. The physicians told me they should be sore for another month. She moans the same feigned moans she always utters, and I summon the thrill of the hunt once more. The sun through the trees, the horse steaming in effort. A dozen men and twenty dogs, obeying my slightest word. The smell of gunpowder, the eyes of the trapped beast, _God, her hands are cold. _

Everything, _everything_ in her is cold.

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face in her neck, God, how can I be of any use if she touches me with fingers carved of ice? The sound of a gunshot, the beast falling down, oh I hate the touch of frozen skin.

Everything in her is cold.

_Armand, he burns._

**No**.

No, I can’t do that, not _him_, not again.

It happened far too often those last six months. _Far. Too. Often. _

  
Not that foul, unspeakable sin that bears his name, not in this room, I’m here for duty, I’m here for my Kingdom, I cannot –

_‘Your Majesty, such a pleasure.’_

His gentle voice as I walk in his study. The flames in his stare as he comes up with a new plan. His clever eyes, his brilliant mind. His bold, elegant handwriting. The precise movements of his thin wrists.

No, not him, can't I discipline myself?

  
He’s drenched in filth, he’s soaked in blood. His name heard everywhere, his speech pervading minds. The tainted priest, the cunning beast. Don’t think of him, don’t you dare –

‘_Your Majesty, please.’_

How he twisted in pain, a prisoner in my grasp.

She smiles up at me, why is she smiling? Did I cry out? _Oh, God, I did. _

My hand is in her hair, her fingers are stroking me, much too slow and much too tight, but all I see in the darkness of her bed are flashes of _his silver_. The shadows of his eyelashes on the white skin of his cheeks. His slender hands gripping my shirt.

Blood on the corner of his lips.

I gasp as I roughly take her, rock-hard and shuddering, muffling myself in her pillow, so she never knows where that fire in me is coming from. She moans, higher, gripping my back, muttering praise, _be quiet, for God’s sake be quiet. _

His delicate hands on that map of Europe. The key to all glories in the glint of his eyes.

I groan, too loud, as I grab her thighs and thrust deeper. She begs for something; I cannot hear what it is, I cannot care the slightest. Her absurd bed creaks and I bite the pillowcase hard enough to tear. Fire devours my guts, fire ravages my skin. Crazed and panting, I grab her thin white wrists because they’re the only thing they have in common. I focus on them, clinging to the echo of his voice. I don’t think I’ve known a higher pleasure, and I’m only touching _memories_ of him.

His pale soft skin, his burning lips.

The storm beyond the seawall.

Her scratching on my back becomes frantic- it may hurt, but I don’t care. She’s moaning my name, spasming around me, _oh, be quiet. _You have no idea the nameless sin you owe your pleasure to.

That raging madness in his eyes, dimmed as he lowers his head.

The surrender in his cries, as he yields to my mouth.

  
My Red Beast tamed at last. Mine. _Mine._

I let out a long shuddering groan, stunned by my own delight, filling her one last time before I slide out to catch my breath. Oh, God, _again._

_It happened again. _

I am damned, burning alive in Hell’s warning fire.

What did I do, what have I done, to deserve everything I need in that one man?

I wanted to be pure I swear, I wanted righteousness more than anything in the world, but God, you didn't let me be loved by my own kin, and my wife never had a warmer look my way.

If you hadn’t made me so lonely in this palace of smoke and mirrors, maybe I could have fought Hellfire itself. I could have refused the crime, I could have ignored the flame.

What did I do, what have I done?

_Lord, have mercy on me; I am helpless, and I am doomed._

_God above, pardon me, I always had this filth under my skin._

“You have been most ardent tonight, Monsieur.”

_Shut up. Would you just **please** shut the hell up._

“Have I?”

“I have no doubt that your fervent embrace will soon get me with child again.”

_Oh, it’d better do, bloody witch, so I can be relieved of the nightmare of your nauseating, tepid bed. _

“It is my dearest hope, Madame.”

I feel the low humming of pleasure still crawling on my spine, my body draining it to the last shred with far too much bliss for my own sake, and if I don't get out of here, I'm going to be sick.

I reluctantly grab her hand, lay down a botched kiss upon it, and get up in a swift move. My whole skin protests, screaming for rest, begging for warmth, _oh, you won't get any warmth here, trust me_.

The way his hair curled around his shoulder as he leant over his Decrees in my carriage.

The way his robes swirled around his legs as he jumped off in Versailles, turning around to help me down the footboards. Everything is cold in here.

_Armand, he always burns. _

I stumble to my clothes, put them back on in growing distress, and stride to the door. Twilight is descending on the rooftops of the Louvre, bathing the skyline of Paris in gentle violet light. Truly, she has the best view. I huff a bitter sigh and leave, almost running to my apartments. Four Courtiers are aligned there, asking for an audience.

I send them away with a growl.

_'Your Majesty, such a pleasure.'_

Oh, stop it, focus. Don't think about him_. _

I order to be left alone, and make sure the doors slam loud enough for my state of mind to be widely understood. I only call back Pottier to have a bath prepared in my bedroom, but though I clean myself for a whole hour, I know there is no hope of erasing this stain of sin on my soul.

_'Your Majesty, please.”_

I wish I could at least groan, but it was nothing more than a pitiful whimper I just let out.

I throw away the washcloth in rage at some point, sending it splashing on my bed, and slump against the rim of my bathtub. I rub a tired hand on my mouth and try to steady my breathing by focusing on the detailed carving of my desk next to me. After a while, I notice a notch on the left side of the furniture’s thick foot.

_Hah_, I know where this came from.

  
It was five years ago, as De Toiras offered me that ceremonial sword to celebrate the victory of Montpellier. I didn't expect it to be so heavy with gems and gold, so in my first attempt to wield it I dropped it, blade first, right between Toiras' feet.

The brave man apologised for an hour and a half, blaming the quality of the sword over my own clumsiness, and I had to make him drink a whole bottle of Bourgogne to stop him from stuttering pleas.

I have a fond smile for that notch in the dark wood. I’d been a bit harsh with De Toiras last time we met. I’ll summon him tomorrow. I owe him nothing less.

I'd be grateful, to be honest, if he could distract me for a while from the mess my mind has become.

From the hellfire in my guts, the calling of my skin.

_From that soft voice inside my head._

I'd be grateful, I cannot lie, if he could offer me an escape from that stench of sin crawling up my spine.

From the promise of unknown bliss in the curve of that slender neck. 

From my whole life, from my own death.

_From Armand. _


	10. June 2nd 1627, Parterre du Tybre, Gardens of Fontainebleau.

“And now, Your M-Majesty, let's t-try the fuse pistol!”

Toiras precedes me to the wide table where an incredible amount of firearms are displayed.

Truly, this man is resourceful.

I sent him a note this very morning, telling him he was finally allowed to organise the weapon demonstration he’d been wanting to put up for me for months, and asking for it to take place in Fontainebleau around mid-day. He had barely a few hours to prepare, but Marshal de France Saint-Bonnet de Toiras was there to welcome my carriage as it passed the gates of Fontainebleau at noon as if he'd been in there all day. The huge man told me, radiant with joy, that he had three dozen of the best weapons the gunsmiths of France had to offer to entertain me with.

He didn't lie. He never does.

After a short meal with a quiet and abashed Gaston, giving me the warm illusion of a genuine family meeting for a while, Toiras led me through the gardens into the wide open of the Tybre flowerbeds.

Fontainebleau, my birthplace, has always been a miracle of tamed nature. Spices and trees are duelling, both in the air and on the ground, in a polite war of vivid smells. The willows hiss around the ponds, heavy with leaves of shimmering grace. The fountains sing their crystal song, as a tribute to the freesias and the roses, all rigorously aligned in fleur-de-lis patterns.

The Louvre is no more than ten miles away, but still something else entirely. It’s a huge ancient beast smothered by the widening mushroom Paris is becoming. Most of the gardens had to be sacrificed to buildings there, since empty space is becoming as rare as a diamond within City walls, and the crowded darkness there gets on my nerves most of the time.

So, as I look up at the lenient skies, squinting a little in the blinding light, I can’t repress a satisfied smile. Spotless blue is all around, not a sound is to be heard. How deep silence can get, free from the rumbling of fifty thousand souls pressed upon each other around two turnings of the Seine. I take a deep breath, blessing this afternoon, this place, this man. I feel at peace, almost, _nearly._

Toiras hands me a superbly carved pistol, made in Limousin by a certain Denay.

“It's one of the l-lightest,” He explains as I turn the weapon around in my hand. “b-but I think he could have chosen a b-better wood essence.”

I look up at him with a nod. He smiles, wide as life, cheerful as springtime. He looks happier than ever, and though excitement tends to make him stutter even more, his delight is a warm glow I was desperately in need of.

I wind the hammer in two quick moves, aim, and shoot.

Toiras yells in delight and takes a few steps towards the target to have a closer look.

“B-bull's eye!” he shouts.

He’s exaggerating. I’m at least half an inch to the left. But it's good enough.

“I like the design of this one,” I state, pointing at the upper side of the gun. “That small lid over the flash pan could allow foot soldiers to use them in the pouring rain. But fuse pistols aren't reliable enough.”

The Marshal nods pensively, rubbing his dark beard with a huge tanned hand. He has a calculating gaze for the demonstration table, then his face lights up, and he gasps.

“Oh! M-maybe this one!”

He picks up a silex pistol, plainer, but sturdier, and replaces the fuse weapon in my hand with it. I flinch. It's indeed twice as heavy, but the robust firelock designed by the genius Da Vinci makes it safer and longer-lasting.

Wind, aim, shoot. Still half an inch to the left.

I've never been excellent with firearms. Slightly better with swords, I think, but still not as good as Toiras, by example. I lack training, I lack time. To be a perfect King, you’d have to be five men, and divine right or not, I got only one lifetime.

The mountain of a man still sincerely praises my aim, his hands on his hips, his chest swelled with pride, the golden rims of his leather doublet shining bright in the springtime sun. I smile back, soothed by his laughter. He speaks about the gunsmith, a promising young man from Nantes, ready to have a lot more made for his King's army.

“He's g-good!” Toiras claims. “And he'll come ch-cheaper than those self-declared m-masters who stubbornly continue to p-produce the weapons our forefathers used!”

With that, he roars in laughter again, urging me to try the harquebus, the musket.

I always liked this kind of man. He reminds me enough of my father to make me feel secure, yet he’s different enough to spare me the melancholy of his loss. He’s loyal, this is rare enough to be worshipped, and far too blunt to scheme or lie. He’s a soldier, practical and true, wide open like those blue skies, strong and safe as those oak trees.

I watch dear Jean stutter and guffaw as he demonstrates a long elegant silex harquebus. One switch of the flash pan fills the powder reservoir, a second unlocks the trigger. He points, and shoots.

** _-boom-_ **

The hole in the centre of that target could be the size of my bloody head.

I gape for a while then, and I don't know why I burst in laughter. He turns to me, overjoyed like only a hunting hound could be, his chuckle joining mine.

“I'd like ten thousands of those,” I say.

And looking into the gentle green eyes his thick eyebrows fail to harden, I whisper, shrugging, “A pity I don't have ten thousands of you.”

He coughs, bowing low with a fake theatrical move, _God, is he blushing? _

“M-Majesty, with ten th-thousand of me, t-there wouldn't be enough wine in all of f-France!”

He laughs again, so high, so loud a flock of sparrows scatter off the flowerbeds in sheer terror. Wiping his eyes and giggling, his look on me still changes for a second as he straightens his back, just before he strides away to replace the target.

_Oh._

I have seen that look on his face already, a few times I think.

I may not enjoy powder and fancy attires, I may favour hunting over conversation, but I am not oblivious to the ways of the world. I am not as _stupid_ as Mother would like to believe. I know what this looks means. I am aware of the things that can happen in army camps during months of atrocious war, or straining siege. No one talks about them, but everyone knows they exist.

Those embraces that God forbid.

I am a Catholic King, I know I should punish this sin, but how could I hang loyal soldiers of France, how could I hang men like Toiras?

Those puppets of the Church chanting sermons about mortal sin have never witnessed or understood the cruel nightmare war can be.

Soldiers take whatever comfort they can find.

Wait-

_Maybe it’s only that. _

Maybe what is happening to me is the same as what happens to those men in siege camps. A soldier's comfort. Nothing else. A sin, alright, but a sin I could ignore.

Maybe it's not only Armand. Perhaps it could be anyone.

Maybe I think it's all for him because he just happens to be around me all the time. Maybe Jean could, after all, distract me from that soft voice inside my head. He doesn't have _that_ silver hair, he doesn't have _those_ ember eyes.

_But for God's sake, he's not a bloody Cardinal. _

Jean could save me, at least, from the most unspeakable of mortal sins. Grant me the relief of a lighter guilt, _a compromise with damnation._

Dear Toiras, definitely blushing like a bride by now, busies himself arming a huge full-steel musket, shining in glory under the June sun, and I make my voice perhaps a little bit gentler.

“How much does this monster weigh?” I ask him, nodding at the musket.

“Oh, I d-don't know.” He huffs, lifting the weapon as if it was a nothing more than a puppy. “I'd s-say thirty p-pounds. It's m-meant for c-cavalry only, you see. I just wanted t-to show you the range of t-that wonder!”

He aims the massive gun and shoots. The whole target shatters, and eighty yards ahead of us, the delicate leg of a sandstone Venus is blasted apart in the same second.

“Dear _God._” I breathe.

“Imp-pressive, eh?” Toiras brags, dropping the knob of the musket to the ground with a loud thud. “But I f-fear its only use would b-be for s-siege war. Even for a strong ca-cavalryman, this is m-more of a c-cannon than a musk-ket.”

I extend my arm, nodding at the steel monster.

“I want to try it.” I let out.

Jean's black eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a very unsubtle look up and down my frame.

“B-but, Y-Your M-Majesty, it's very heavy!”

“I know, Marshal, I am not blind." I grunt, but I still add, my tone soft enough to be unmistakable. "Help me then.”

_God, what am I doing?_

I have gone mad, I've lost myself.

But if he could distract me for a while, if he could only touch my hand.

A soldier's comfort, nothing else.

A sin I could ignore, a compromise with damnation.

“V-very well, Your M-ajesty.”

He smiles, maybe a bit more seductive than before, as he stands and lifts the musket again. He places it into my hands, and I let out a grumbling curse. I can hold it alright, but there is no way I could lift it high enough to aim with only one arm as support, what kind of _lunatic_ crafted that thing?

_Oh. _

Toiras gently slid behind my back, and his thick arms just came around mine, helping me to raise the gun to eye level. The weight of that machine, of course, sends me flush against his chest, and I wish I hadn’t left my coat and doublet on that table. He's a few inches taller than me, so his mouth is unforgivably close to my ear as he carefully encourages, “J-Just aim, Your M-Majesty. I'll d-do the lifting.”

I am caught, wrapped into him, covered by the smell of his leather. I feel his cheek against my hair; I feel his heart against my back. I hear his breath shortening, and that slight trembling in his palms couldn't be missed. That fire I know very well is right now consuming him whole.

But no matter how desperately I search, there's not a _spark_ inside of me.

Growling, I aim and shoot, shattering Venus' head in a fit of helpless anger, then drop the knob next to my foot with a broken sigh.

Jean is panting. I feel nothing.

God, what do you have in mind? What did I do wrong?

_Couldn’t you at least allow me the escape of a lighter guilt?_

Toiras, praising my aim with a troubled laugh, already starts to shift away, wait, no, give me time, maybe I’ve been too distracted.

“Don't move.” I breathe.

He freezes, and I feel his breath hitching in the crook of my neck.

“Y-Your M-Majesty?”

I can't help a lopsided smile at the sound of his voice, usually roar and thunder, now tip-toeing on broken glass. I watch in silence how his arm, similar and yet so different from mine, encircles me in a smooth embrace. His hand, uncertain but brave, gently descends along the musket until it covers mine, still clenched around the trigger. I don't mind.

He feels good, I give him that. He feels safe. He feels bright and warm. A hearth in wintertime and I wish, _oh God how I wish_ I could be burning right now, just as he is, poor dear Jean.

But I cannot lie to myself. I cannot cower from my own truth.

No matter how deep I search, my whole body remains silent.

There's emptiness in me, it seems I was born with it, and it used to be soothed by this kind of man's presence. Today, it isn't anymore.

It doesn't seem it'll ever be again.

Gingerly, his thumb starts to draw circles on the back of my hand, and I have a fond look for the sweet gesture. Lord, this man has a good heart, strong as a bear, devoted to me. God, _please_.

This sin I could ignore.

I close my eyes, exhale a desperate whimper. He stops.

“_Don't_.” I snap.

He starts again with a huff of joy. Emboldened even, his other arm circles around my waist, pulling me further against him. I let him handle me, but though I truly don't mind, nothing ignites inside my skin.

_Oh, he's a man, for God's sake, isn't he enough?_

I keep my eyes closed, feeling desperate, my body keeping a stubborn stillness. Then his hand around mine on that insane musket twitches, anxious, distressed, and for a second it reminds me of another hand.

White and slender, trembling in worry.

Thin, damaged, floating one inch above my shirt.

  
Gripping the fabric around my chest.

Fire _blazes _then, gripping my insides, stopping my very heart.

I let out a small cry.

The musket falls flat on the ground at our feet in a racket of steel and gravel.

I jump, my eyes wide open, and tear myself from Jean's embrace in a strangled gasp. I turn around to stare at him as he frowns in concern, heaving, confused.

Oh, God, what have I done to deserve this?

What is capricious to hope for a more righteous kind of love?

My wife, my family, my people, it was all I ever wanted. But you left me alone upon that ancient throne with no one else but the Red Beast.

  
Burning, _burning_ at my side.

_And you wouldn't even allow me the escape of a lesser sin._

There is no bargaining with fate.

It will be Armand. It will be only _Armand._

Armand, _Cardinal_ de Richelieu.

_Lord, have mercy. _

“Y-y-your M...”

I snap out of my thoughts. Oh, yes, Jean.

Poor dear Jean. He's almost crumbling down, caught between shame and worry, his frown getting deeper with every second of my silence. This man has a good heart, the bravest soldier of France, he's not to blame for my own curse.

He has done nothing more than what I told him to.

And a King should reward every act of loyalty.

I softly lay a hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes with an affectionate smile, and breathe,

“This has been a most insightful demonstration, _Monsieur._”

His face brightens like a summer sky after a storm. He knows the meaning of a simple “Monsieur” where there could be so many titles instead.

“You will summon that young gunsmith from Nantes to the Louvre next week,” I add in gentler tones. “I have business to discuss with him.”

He nods, beaming joy again, and compliments my choice in barely restrained mirth.

I shift half an inch closer then, just enough for the ruffles of my shirt to brush against his doublet, and if my thumb draws a few circles on the base of his neck, really, it is only coincidence.

“I must, alas, get back to Paris before sunset.” I purr. “But I expect you not to linger far behind.”

With that, my hand flies away, only to be offered to him in the regular, soldiery manner. With a sharp roar of solid laughter, he clasps it into his, and the “_with pleasure, Your Majesty_” he thunders goes out without the slightest stuttering.


	11. June 2nd 1627, Southern road to Paris, Ile de France.

The road back to the Louvre is sullen and quiet. I feel in my doublet the weight of the silex pistol from the young master of Nantes, and I clench my teeth upon the lessons learned this afternoon.

Toiras' embrace has left me more regretful than aflame, and there will be no compromising with my own sin.

I can pray, I can beg. I can walk barefooted all the way to Compostelle if I want to. I can kneel on the cobblestones of Jerusalem itself and seek redemption for a whole week. But I know, as sure as this sunset glows behind the towers of Notre-Dame, that the moment I return to Paris he’ll be there, and he'd only need one look of his glistening eyes to have me trapped in the shadows of his robes once more.

Those robes of that particular shade of carmine.

_They call it Cardinal red._

No.

No, I cannot yield to that want. I cannot fail my own blood.

My father has spent his whole life soiled by dalliances and scandal, I _refuse_ to follow that path. I am the heir of Saint Louis, a holy example of virtue and righteousness. I am a King of divine right, accountable before God for the morality of my reign.

I need to show more discipline, restore the purity of the Bourbons.

I'll stay away from Armand.

I'll only summon him for State business, that’s all, and send him out as soon as it is done, so he won't be seen at my side for too long. We’ll travel in separate carriages, we’ll talk by notes and messengers. I’ll lock him up in his Palais, out of my sight, out of my reach, and I’ll never dine with him again. 

I'll stay away, I have no choice, I need to show more discipline.

_I cannot fail my own blood. _

I sigh, looking through the carriage window, searching for signs of God’s approval in cloudy skies, but the lonesome sceneries of Ile de France offer no comfort to my eyes, and I do smile in relief as I see the last country houses before Paris pass me by.

It starts with small farms, blacksmith's workshops, inns, taverns and horse relays, gathered around the dusty road along the Seine. I can see my cherished people selling grain there, mending shoes, and folding laundry that has spent a whole day drying on the grass. A quiet evening of June among the nobodies of this land.

Then, abruptly, the high ramparts of Paris appear to put an end to the countryside and replace it by the capital’s wild, deafening _tumult._ Though my escort makes sure everything and everyone is properly pushed out of my way, the City still wraps my senses in the same colourful chaos she always wears. Trading booths, sacks of wheat, horses and carts, soldiers and women, everything is blended and blurred in the racket of multitudes. Dogs bark upon doorsteps, children run in dirty alleys. Gazettes are sold for a sou, workers carry their heavy load. Paris rumbles like a monstrous beehive standing on the Seine's riverbank.

A royal carriage hardly ever rolls unnoticed, above all on the lively, animated Pont-Neuf. I see the gasping folk gathered there pointing at it, and some of them even bow, though they can only guess who sits inside. I relish in the clamours of reverence heard at my passage, breathing in the scents of unguents and tinctures that are always sold upon that bridge.

I have a proud, delighted smile.

Paris. My dear City. _My dear people._

At this moment, somewhere in the street, I hear a clear voice shout my name. “_Vive Louis, le Juste!_” it says, and I barely have time to search through the window and see a young cobbler wave his hat at my carriage with a radiant smile upon his face.

I blink, stunned by the wave of forceful warmth washing over me.

_Louis, le Juste. _

Dear God. It is nothing else than who I've always wanted to be. A man of virtue and righteousness, the last heir of Saint Louis.

History is being written. Dreams are getting closer.

Those dreams of mine, written on Armand's map.

I sink back in my seat, instinctively searching for the approaching outline of the Palais Cardinal on my left. He is working there, I know because he always is. His hard day’s work, his sleepless nights.

For our vision of future France. _For me._

Though it fills me with bitterness sometimes, I cannot cower away from the fact that it is mostly to the hardships of Richelieu’s work that I owe this young cobbler's praise.

There wouldn’t have been any grandeur without Armand’s sick, brilliant mind. There wouldn’t be that glow of pride in my heart as I watch Paris through my window. There wouldn’t have been any victories, treaties, decrees, edicts. The State would still be a dream locked away at the bottom of my heart.

He might be a curse, he might be a snake, but before the day Richelieu entered my council room, my reign had only been dormant. He came in to unroll that map of Europe for me, and he has never stopped pushing France’s limits since. 

I can lament about how exhausting he is, and I can deplore all the sin he’s stained with, but I can’t deny that my vision would never have become truth if he wasn’t there with me to share it.

I can take comfort in remembering I could destroy him with one word just as I did with Concini, but I can’t ignore the blatant fact that he’s nothing like that Italian filth I had shot down.

_Louis, le Juste. _

Am I? Am I just, really?

Am I a King of justice as I swear to shun and discard the man I owe my own future to? Am I fair, am I righteous, as I decide to exclude from my entourage the most devoted of my servants, the only one in this whole Palace I can't afford to lose?

No matter the stain of sin pervading my heart, this man’s rightful place is at my side. He has served, sacrificed and given enough for that fact to be made clear. Justice is not shutting him out.

Justice is bringing him into my light.

Yet, I still burn for Armand in every filthy, nameless way, and keeping him close means I’ll have to face that flame, that shameful need in me, with every hour, every minute, until our work for France is done. With his voice lingering around my ears, with his skin dwelling within my reach, remaining virtuous and pure as Saint Louis my forefather will be much more than a solemn vow.

It will be a struggle_, it will be war. _

Well, I have fought so many battlefields, how could this one be different?

I'll push back the flames, smother the embers, I'll ignore the calling for as long as it takes, that’s all. Sooner or later, for sure, I won't feel a thing anymore.

I’ll avert my eyes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll avert my eyes, I’ll avoid his touch, and I’ll be deaf to the sound of his cries. One day, I am certain, the fire in me will tire out.

I’ll control myself, I have no choice, I need to show more discipline.

No matter the stain of sin in my own heart, I cannot cower away from my own fate anymore. Armand’s rightful place is at my side, and I owe him enough to make it clear for everyone to see.

*** 

I step down onto the white gravel of my Palace’s courtyard again, welcomed by the smell of herbs from the gardens and candle wax from the servant’s torches. The flowerbeds of the Louvre are much smaller than those of Fontainebleau, but still bearing the charm of miracles, like a bubble of green among pavements of stone.

Pottier comes to greet me, telling me the news of the day as I walk to the dining room, where candelabras are shining high, and chamber music can be heard. Marillac has fallen ill, and won't be at Council tomorrow. I frown and ask for my good wishes to be sent to him. Thérèse de Bonnevie has given birth to a son, named Louis. I smile, order a thousand livres to be given to the boy. The cooks propose coq-au-vin for supper, I nod my agreement.

The large dining room doors open wide for me, four servants bowing at the sight of me, and the small orchestra instantly stands in reverence.

I am also welcomed by the tight circle of polite faces made by Mother, Anne, and twenty courtiers I find among the less irritating. Except for Chevreuse. I hate that harpy. I know she's nose-deep in every single intrigue that made me lose so much time at Court, and I am sure Richelieu has a whole shelf filled with evidence against her.

But exiling her would only irate Anne more, and I really don't need a Spanish infant wanting me dead in my own house.

My fate seems to be made of keeping my enemies closer than my friends.

Mother marches towards me, warbling a theatrical greeting, opening her wide arms to clutch me in a suffocating embrace, oh, dear Lord, _please_.

“I am so delighted to see you, _mio figlio!”_

I give out a short smile. I’ve been gone for one day. _Bloody hell. _

I gently move aside to kiss Anne's hand, asking her about her day, praying her answer will be short.

“Very amiable, Monsieur.” She softly states. Good girl.

I turn towards the orchestra, clapping my hands twice to have some music played. Then I turn to speak to Pottier, as my butler is wise enough to never fall too far behind.

“I suppose Richelieu is still working in his study?” I ask.

“He hasn't been seen anywhere else today, Your Majesty.”

Of course, that's what I thought_. __The next task. _

After the Edicts and the Assembly, he slept for fifty hours straight, the physician Citoys at his bedside, trying to manage the fever.

La Valette told me that when he woke up and learned about the vote, he cried for the people of France, and asked his friend if God would forgive him because provincial folk surely never would.

But after a while, ever resolved, he got up, got dressed, and asked for Joseph to be summoned back from Fontfroide straight to Paris.

The next task. There’s always a next task.

From what I've heard, the Cardinal has now set his eyes towards the Pacific colonies, the French Harbours of the Ocean coast, and above all, the ramparts of La Rochelle.

_God, this man never rests. _

Every hard day's work, every sleepless night.

This man’s rightful place is at my side. _Justice is not shutting him out. _

“Invite him here for dinner.” I order Pottier. “Be polite.”

Anne and Mother gasp, whispering their confusion to each other.

It is true indeed that though I have shared a few botched meals with the Cardinal before, they have always been quick bites grabbed while working in my apartments or his study, and I have never formally invited him to any of my _real _private dinners. They have been exclusively limited to the Royal family and their closest friends ever since the reign of Henri III. Though I fear they aren’t as warm and spontaneous as when my father was still there, diplomacy and politics are banished from conversations, and only leisure is allowed.

The seats around this table have always been the most desired prizes to be earned in the Louvre.

_Well, precisely._

I sit at the high table, calling for wine. Anne sits at my left, and I nod at her with a welcoming smile.

But as Mother moves her wide figure to sit at my right, I tut, and gently place an empty glass cup upon the seat she’s coveting. I see, in the corner of my eyes, her round face turn red, quivering in rage, her ridiculous jewels wobbling along with the rest of her. I don't look up.

It’s about time, I think, to make a statement.

I enjoy wine and music, and when the valets move to bring the coq-au-vin, I order them to wait until Richelieu arrives. Mother, forced to move one seat away from me, has a furious glance for the empty cup on my right, and I distinctly hear her insulting her creature in foul, vulgar Italian.

In her clenched fists, I should read bad omens.

In her angry voice, I should hear danger.

But I am determined to demonstrate Armand’s well-deserved right.

He takes some time to arrive, and I picture him insisting upon finishing his paragraph before he leaves his study, even to my own invitation. But at some point, the valets announce him, and the doors open for his tall, red-clad frame.

He steps in, standing proud, draped in his usual elegance. He's a bit pale, perhaps, his eyes tired by too much reading, but the seawall is holding tight. I notice his hands, carrying at least three maps and a folder, and let out a small laugh. Ha! He thinks I invited him for _work_, of course.

I roll my eyes, gesture him to approach. He obeys, making that straight line I still enjoy just as much as the first. He comes to bow in front of me from the other side of the table, and this time I make him wait there for a few seconds, indulging myself the pleasant sight of his silver hair, and the way his brocade robes glow in firelight.

He takes my silence as a signal to speak, and he starts to unfold one of his maps, enumerating the five most urgent state businesses at hand, but I only raise a finger, trying not to smirk too much.

“Put that away, Cardinal.” I huff. “We'll discuss this later.”

He frowns, confused, and I read, clear as day, that he has no idea why on Earth he could be called at my side, if not for politics.

I pick up the empty glass on the seat at my right, then, have it filled with red wine, lay it down next to the plate facing the vacant chair, and wave a hand for him to sit down. He doesn't even twitch, his veiled eyes looking around, his clockwork mind searching for the trap, his lips already tight with anguish, _oh, for God’s sake, will you ever calm down?_

“Must I _order you_ to have dinner with me, Cardinal?” I growl.

His stare snaps back at me, and he seems to grasp my intention at last. For a dreadful second, I think he might start to cry, but he only blinks twice, slowly, and walks around the table to my side. He doesn't forget a very graceful bow for Mother, who just shrugs a rumbling sound.

He sits, then, his waves of red silk whispering in joy, lays both his hands on his lap, and lowers his head thankfully. His shoulders drop with such subtlety only I can sense it, and in a heartbeat, warmth spreads from my guts straight to my heart, glowing with strength, tingling with pride. I have a fulfilled look for the Court, the portrait of my father facing me, and the Paris skyline through the windows, feeling a greater king than I have ever been.

The world fell into place. My title has meaning.

I feel complete; I feel whole. My worry and doubts washed clean by his waves of silver hair.

I quietly order the coq-au-vin to be brought.

*** 

  


He didn’t speak much, too crushed by everyone’s stare fixed upon him I suppose, and alarmed above all by my mother's palpable rage. Since small talk isn’t in my tastes, I wasn't quite helpful about conversation, but the silence between us wasn’t as uncomfortable as I thought.

I had to frown at the sight of courtiers vomiting their jealousy in hushed whispers, and I had to roll my eyes at the pitiful amount of food Richelieu stubbornly restricted himself to, but all in all, truly, it has been quite satisfying dinner, a quite pleasant _statement._

I got up content, allowing Anne to retire upon the promise of a visit later, like every damned evening. Mother waited for me to dismiss Richelieu for a while, but seeing I had no intention to, she excused herself grumbling, and strode away in a ruffle of lace, gems and rancid sweat.

I watched her leave with a concern that was nothing compared to the sheer distress in the Red Beast’s eyes. I think I saw in that anguish a ghost of the lute player’s old devotion, and before I thought it through, I was spitting through clenched teeth.

“Do the moods of my mother still affect you, _Minister_?”

“Only to the extent of their possible consequences, Your Majesty,” He breathed, turning to me with a slight bow.

I didn’t reply. I just beckoned him to the reception room of my apartments, finally allowing him to lay down his maps and documents upon my desk and talk State business, which he is doing now, barely hiding a sigh of relief.

“The first waves of income from the Provincial tax system are starting to come through” He announces, pushing in front of me a table of accounts. “I had, as we discussed, the first ten thousand sent to Frederick-Henry of the United Provinces in exchange of ships, and his continued harassing of the House of Hapsburgs. Another ten thousand will be sent to the Duke of Savoy, to help him organise the siege of Genes, which is, as we both know, Spain’s main war bank. It should lower their appetite for a while. Concerning the next ten thousand, it could be allocated to the equipment of the new French army. As for the replacement of unreliable weapons -”

“ - decisions have already been made in that matter.” I cut in, drawing the Nantes silex gun from my doublet and laying it on his table of accounts.

He starts at the sound of the pistol hitting the desk and contemplates it with a blank face for a while. Then, he gingerly lifts it in his hand to turn it around once or twice. I wait for his verdict to fall, but he only lays it back, safely tucked away from his accounts, muttering with a courteous smile,

“Your Majesty’s judgment is undoubtedly better than mine.”

_Oh, is it now?_

With a snicker for the memory of all the hours spent arguing and fighting the arrogant know-it-all he can be, I sheathe the pistol and watch him unfold a map of France, the western coastline covered in marks, signs and thick writing.

Circled twice in red ink, of course, La Rochelle stands out as the focal point of his obsession.

“Father Joseph has devoted this last year to the opening of safe trade lines to France’s newest colonies in Guadeloupe and New France.” He says, the fervour I know by heart steadily rising in his voice. “Since the proclamation of the Edicts last year, most of our harbours have been stripped of their local privileges and are now completely under the Crown’s authority. They are all in condition to play their part when the income from colonial trade rises. All, except – “

“_La Rochelle_.” I sigh. “Don’t tell me you intend to plead for war against one of my own cities again.”

He darts up a glance at me, and in his wide eyes of blazing embers, I read that of course, _of course, he does. _

_Oh, Hell. _

_  
_Curse that relentless man.

I sense more hours of exhausting argument incoming, and I’m not sure I am ready for them tonight.

“The widest, most important harbour of France, Your Majesty,” he goes on, gentle but determined, “is still clinging to its ancient privileges, signing new contracts with England every day without a thought for Your Majesty’s assent. La Rochelle has her own government, her own tax system, and her self-proclaimed ‘State inside the State’ considers it owes _nothing_ to the Crown.”

I raise a finger, hoping to break the ascending spiral of his feverish speech, and though a part of me knows I’m only fooling myself, I still enter the arena.

“Cardinal, I know where all this is leading,” I warn him. “But I refuse to besiege one more French city and wage war on my own people. Besides, siege war is not our strongest skill. Don’t you remember how shamefully I had to retreat after the disaster of Montauban?”

He straightens his back, joining his hands on his stomach, biting his lips in anxiety, but his focused stare upon his documents tells me there isn't any reply of mine he hasn't planned, _oh, God, you’re not letting go, are you?_

_You bloody never will._

“The circumstances are different.” He muses, his stance humble, his eyes ardent. “Adding to her self-allowed privileges is a blatant insult to the unity of faith, La Rochelle claims to be a safe haven for all Huguenots and discontented Grands. It is literally a hotbed for revolt. If the people are properly addressed on this matter, I am sure you will have all the French Catholic’s support in this endeavour, should you decide to…”

My fingers started tapping on the desk a few seconds ago. I only notice now, as the tapping turns into a sharp bang. He starts, staring at my hand. His own fingers twitch. He saw the warning, alright.

“Cardinal, I have made myself clear,” I state, very quiet.

He keeps silent for a while, eyes still locked on my hand, his breath a bit short, and I feel his mind calculating at dreadful speed. I wait patiently, letting him decide to drop weapons or charge again, watching the embers of anthracite with wariness and exasperation.

After a whole minute of this, instead of arguing some more, he gently folds back his maps, and while he puts his documents away on the floor, he simply muses on a lighter tone, as if he was changing the subject.

“My informants in England keep confirming the erratic behaviour of the Duke of Buckingham. He is gathering funds to raise a float, using whatever Charles is able to give, which isn’t much at this point. Still, he hired Spanish mercenaries and has been seen ordering unexpected colours to be raised to the masts of his ships.”

_What the hell is he trying on me now? _

“Unexpected as in…?” I grumble.

“As in Her Majesty Anne’s, by example.” He drops, his eyes elegantly sliding to the windows.

_Anne! _

That English _scum_ has the _nerve_ to...

Wait.

No, no, wait, _Machiavelli,_ I know what you're doing.

Since I can't seem to be persuaded by politics, you're trying to lure me into battle by jealousy. Because if that foolish prat Buckingham launches an attack on France for the eyes of my sweet wife, where would he try to disembark, of course?

  
_La Rochelle. _

“I will **_not _**lead my army to La Rochelle!” I shout, inching towards him with clenched fists.

And then, against all the odds, instead of pleading some more or stepping back in anguish, he spins around quietly, his wide eyes aflame, and asks with unwavering intent,

“Let me go instead.”

I freeze, my teeth clapping shut upon the enraged quarrel I was ready for.

“What?” Is all I can gasp.

Moved by his own foolish certainty, he barely hesitates before he grabs one of my fists, wrapping it into his own warm hands, and presses it against his heart.

Spark, flame, _firestorm_.

My skin howls so loud my knees almost quiver. My breath hitches, my mind lost in the dark, struggling for clear thought. Transported by a feverish conviction, he doesn't even notice.

“I’ll do it.” He pleads, eager, reckless. “I'll raise the army, find the ships. I'll organise the siege. I'll do it in your name if only you let me.”

I don't reply. I can't. I just slowly, dreamily unclench my hand until it lays flat against his chest. I stare, unmoving, counting the scattered beats of his passionate heart. After a few seconds, he realises, and his anthracite eyes widen. His hands let go of mine in a desperate move and gracefully hover a few inches above it.

He opens his mouth to speak, but this time, I shake my head.

“Shut up,” I whisper.

His bites his lips tight, but his unbearable stare remains fixed upon mine.

“Lower your eyes,” I command.

He obeys. His heavy eyelashes flutter slightly, and then he drops his gaze to the feet of my desk. _Good._

Now I can think.

I exhale a long shuddering breath, and hammer out my words, covering my tense voice with threat.

“You will keep me informed as to this Buckingham idiot. Until then, I forbid you, do you hear me? I forbid you to take the slightest initiative concerning La Rochelle, or any other square inch of _my Kingdom _without my duly signed order, _is that clear?_”

His heart misses a beat. His hands twitch above mine. But eventually, he nods, his eyes on the floor quickly tearing up. He's obviously struggling to breathe, and I hear his seawall creaking.

Before I realise it, my hand shifts upwards then until my fingertips graze his neck, his jawline. He whimpers, his lips parting slightly, only to be licked by his quick, pink tongue.

Fire roars, burning my skin to ashes. Flames rise high, yelling his name with every breath I take.

I thought I would show more discipline. Three bloody hours ago I swore to myself I would restore the purity of my bloodline, and turn my back to my father's sinful ways.

  
Fool that I was

_Fool that I am._

My voice, I fear, is nothing but a broken rasp as I add, “That being said...”

I stroke his wet lips with a shaking thumb, and they obediently open up for me. I slide my finger halfway inside his mouth, feeling his slick tongue grazing its tip in sinful warmth. I let out a throaty groan, and pull out my thumb, marking a wet trail on his hollow cheek.

“...I appreciate your dedication.” I pant, and his slender hands quickly fly up to mine, lead it to his lips again.

He kisses it twice again, sending sparks of pleasure down my very spine. He didn't look up once.

My Red Beast of the Louvre tamed at last.

Mine. _Mine. _

I want to grab his hair; I want to drag him to my bed. I want to tear those red robes apart and devour him whole. I want every inch of his skin to be begging for my mercy; I want everything he is.

Fire roars.

I want to hear his cries again.

I was so fierce in my resolve, in that carriage on my way here. I was so adamant in virtue and rightfulness, but fool that I was, it's not even my own willpower that pours ice on my fire this time. It is merely a glance at my bedroom door, falling upon the Holy Cross above it by accident.

Standing there, shaking in need in the face of God, I understand how hopeless I am.

I'll push back the flames, I thought, I’ll control myself, and sooner or later, the howling will have to fade. _I cannot fail my own blood, I vowed, how can this battlefield be any different?_

Well, in everything.

This battlefield isn’t to be fought with guns, swords and cannons. For this duel, I am unarmed, unprepared, unfit. This is a war I’m bound to lose. God, look at me, merely touching him, already lost in need, feverish, impatient. How easy it was to take an oath alone in a carriage, how impossible it is to be true to it by now, with his deft tongue circling around my finger.

  
This one war, I was never meant to win.

There will be no escape, no compromise.

No rule, _no control. Fool I have been. _

“Let go of me.” I exhale.

Flinching in heartbreak, agony shooting through his whole frame, he still complies, not looking up. His hands drop to his sides in defeat, and my whole body wails for his warmth once more.

I was never meant to win.

“Get out,” I order.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, his breath wheezing horribly, and I see a single tear roll down his cheek, _no, Armand, don't. _With a few words I allow him to look at me, and I wait for his clever eyes to understand that if I order him to leave, it is because I am unable to step back myself.

  
This one battle I am losing.

Unarmed, unfit, I am trapped, fool that I am, and I beg him to save us both.

The wheezing recedes. Of course, he understands.

He nods, a sad, furtive smile on his exhausted face. He gently slides away to pick up his documents, half of his grace stolen by pain and exits the room without a sound.

If I fall on my knees afterwards, muffling a sob into my hands, it is fatigue, and nothing else.

And if I lift a tearful look at that Holy Cross again, it’s only to warn the skies above that soon enough the inevitable sin will close its grip upon us.

I wanted to face the fire; I swear I did.

But this one war_, I was never meant to win._


End file.
